IRLF 


GIFT  OF 
Prof.    C.    A.    Kofoid 


a 


PHILIP    EARNSCilFFE; 


OR, 


THE  MORALS  OF  MAY  FAIR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  a  cold,  gusty  evening.  Although 
the  middle  of  May,  the  wind,  as  it  swept  up 
from  the  sea,  howled  round  the  Tete  Noire 
rocks  with  more  of  the  fierce  melancholy  of 
December  than  of  that  "sweet  sighing" 
which  should  belong  to  the  month  of  flowers  ; 
and  the  rain  beat  in  torrents  against  the  grey 
old  walls  and  narrow  casements  of  the  Man- 
oir de  Kersaint,  as  it  loomed  grimly  through 
the  gathering  mists  and  dying  twilight.  The 
Manior  was  situated  in  one  of  the  wildest 
parts  of  Western  Brittany,  and  was  a  gloomy 
looking  building  at  all  times — even  with  the 
summer  sun  shining  on  its  many-paned  win- 
dows, scutcheoned  doorways,  and  high-point- 
ed slate  roofs  ;  but  doubly  so,  when,  as  was 
the  case  during  six  months  of  the  year,  the 
storms  of  the  Breton  coast  beat  around  it, 
with  groans,  and  shrieks,  and  tremulous  wail- 
ings,  which,  to  the  superstitious  peasantry  of 
the  district,  might  well  seem  like  voices  from 
the  ghosts  of  shipwrecked  mariners — many 
of  whom  every  winter  found  a  watery  grave 
among  the  shoals  and  rocks  of  that  cruel 
shore. 

The  Manoir  stood  about  a  league  from  the 
nearest  town,  and  with  no  hamlet  or  cottage 
in  its  immediate  neighborhood.  It  was  close 
to  the  sea — which,  indeed,  in  stormy  weather 
often  dashed  its  foam  against  the  windows  on 
that  side  which  faced  the  bay — while  between 
the  house  and  the  shore  lay  a  garden,  only 
exposed  to  the  south,  and  sheltered  even  in 
winter  from  the  rude  north  and  north-western 
blasts.  This  garden  was  old-fashioned,  stiff, 
and  quaint ;  with  a  terrace  overhanging  the 
beach  at  the  farther  end,  flights  of  broken 
steps,  an  ancient  sun-dial,  and  the  remains 
of  a  fountain — all  records  of  the  palmy  days 
of  the  chatteau,  and  the  stiff"  taste  of  a  by- 
gone age — but  pleasant  in  summer,  when 
bright  flowers,  tended  by  no  unloving  hands, 
decked  its  borders,  and  ripe  peaches  and 
grapes  hung  upon  the  warm  southern  wall. 

On  this  evening,  however,  the  garden  look- 
ed desolate  in  the  fast  falling  shadows,  and 
the  early  flowers  lay  crushed  and  soiled  un- 
der the  heavy  rain.  The  court  gates  com- 
municating with  the  road  on  the  other  side  of 
the  house  were  firmly  closed  for  the  night ; 


lor  tne  nignt ;    or  tli 

M111474 


the  watch-dog  lay  silently  sleeping  in  his 
kennel ;  and  only  through  one  of  the  lower 
windows  the  uncertain  flickering  of  a  wood 
fire  gave  token  of  life,  and  the  presence  of 
human  beings  in  this  dreary  habitation. 

But,  however  cheerless  the  scene  withojt, 
within  that  room  was  light  and  warmth,  and 
a  little  group,  so  happy  in  themselves,  as 
scarcely  even  to  bestow  a  thought  upon  the 
drifting  torrents  of  rain  upon  the  windows, 
or  the  wind  that  screamed  and  eddied  in  the 
immense  old  chimney.  The  room  was  itself 
a  vast  one,  With  a  lofty  painted  ceiling,  and 
floor  of  many-colored  woods,  arranged  in  ara- 
besque patterns.  The  faded  furniture  was 
of  the  style  belonging  to  the  reign  of  Louis 
Quinze,  and  conveyed  an  instant  idea  of  for- 
mer courtly  days,  and  more  ample  means 
than  were  possessed  by  the  present  inhabitants 
of  the  Manoir.  On  the  walls  hung  a  goodly 
array  of  portraits — blooming,  powdered,  and 
wreathed  with  flowers ;  doubtless,  some  of 
them  representing  the  fair  chatelaines  of 
Kersaint,  who  had  once  reclined  on  those 
very  high-backed  chairs  of  cramoisi  damask 
which  now  stood  grimly  ranged  under  their 
lifeless  effigies.  The  enormous  chimney- 
piece  was  of  white  marble,  sculptured  over 
with  innumerable  bands  of  roses,  and  figures 
of  love  and  graces  ;  whose  projecting  heads 
occasionally  caught  a  rosy  glow  from  the  ca- 
pricious flickerings  of  the  well-piled  wood 
fire.  Before  this  fire  was  a  little  group  of 
three  persons,  and  their  appearance  seemed 
to  harmonise  strangely  with  the  old-world 
room  they  inhabited,  although,  at  the  same 
time,  they  gave  it  a  warm  and  household  as- 
pect. It  was,  indeed,  an  "interior,"  upon 
which  an  artist's  eye  might  long  have  rested 
with  delight,  half  lit  up  as  it  was  by  the  ever- 
changing  light  from  the  hearth. 

At  intervals,  pale,  fitful  gleams  bathed  the 
figures,  and  the  whole  room,  then,  quickly 
dying  away  into  the  red  glow  of  the  embers, 
left  the  large  solle  alternately  black  and 
sombre,  or  quivering  for  a  few  seconds  in  a 
soft  half-shadow.  Anon  this  wandering  light 
would  fall  upon  some  projecting  gilding  of 
the  picture-frames,  covered  with  medallions 
and  crowns  of  carved  wood,  then  on  the 
massive  furniture,  plated  in  brass  and  ebony, 
or  the  delicately-cut  cornices  of  the  wail 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


coting ;  andf  then,  as  one  brand  fell  extin- 
guisb*»d  and  a  new  flame  broke  from  a  differ- 
ent side  p£  £he,  fire ,r  objects  visible  before  re- 
turned agaifi  .?nk>  obsquifity^Jind  other  bright 
points  stood  ant  frdru  fat '  (Jaik/.ess.  Thus 
the  eye  co,uld  gradually  trace  every  detail  of 
the,  pu-tuie.  Fir,<t  '.the-  paintsd/oeilirig,  be- 
det'l&tf  ^vfcli.'azMje'.a^id  stajrs  ;  ;theri<  the'heavy 
console,  supported  upon  four  huge  silver 
tritons,  now  darkened  and  tarnished  with 
age ;  lastly,  the  fringed  hangings  of  crimson 
damask,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room, 
•which,  covered  with  wavy  reflections,  seemed 
to  advance  and  recede  "mysteriously  in  the 
undulating  rays  of  the  fire. 

In  a  large  arm-chair,  drawn  towards  the 
centre  of  the  fire-place,  sat  an  elderly  man 
of  grave  and  noble  exterior.  He  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  about  fifty ;  but  study 
and  an  expression  of  habitual  melancholy, 
joined  to  delicate  health,  made  him  look  some 
years  older  than  he  really  was.  His  high, 
pale  brow  was  perfectly  bare  at  the  temples, 
in  which  the  blue  veins  were  painfully  visible, 
and  around  the  eyes  was  that  hollow  rim 
which  bespeaks  the  slow,  sure  progress  of 
life's  decay.  His  tall  figure  was  somewhat 
bent,  and  his  white,  thin  hands  hung  with  an 
attitude  of  weakness  upon  the  arm  of  the 
chair.  A  rough  deer-hound  was  at  his  feet ; 
he  was  old  and  grey,  but  still  bore  traces  of 
the  strength  and  beauty  of  his  youth.  His 
wiry  coat  of  a  deep  brindle  hue,  his  black 
eyes,  long,  sharp  muzzle  and  dark  ears,  still 
soft  and  silky,  all  bespoke  his  high  race  and 
pure  blood.  He  had  rested  his  head  upon 
the  invalid's  knee,  and  now  stood  gazing  up 
in  his  face  with  a  tender,  melancholy  expres- 
sion, as  though  he  could  read,  in  his  brute 
love,  the  signs  of  suffering  so  plainly  written 
there;  but  when  his  master  occasionally 
passed  his  hand  over  his  shaggy  neck,  the 
creature's  eyes  softened  and  dilated  with 
pleasure,  and  his  long  tail  swept  from  side  to 
side  upon  the  hearth.  At  length,  he  gave  a 
little  bark  of  impatience,  as  the  object  of  so 
much  love  still  kept  his  face  averted,  while 
he  looked  down  at  a  young  figure  on  his 
other  side,  and  only  extended  an  unthinking 
caress  to  the  hound. 

"Jealous,  as  usual,  old  Bell!"  said  a 
childish  voice.  "Father,  if  you  even  look 
at  me  too  long,  that  creature  barks."  And 
the  speaker,  leaving  a  low  stool  by  the 
hearth,  came  and  seated  herself  by  her  fa- 
ther's feet,  and  held  up  her  little  fist  in  the 
old  hound's  face. 

She  wa«  a  young  girl  of  scarcely  sixteen,  and 
a  Countenance  of  more  perfect,  and  almost  in- 
fantiix  ,•,  it  would  he  dillicult  to 

coweive.  It  was  just  one  of  those  faces  so 
rarely  met  with,  except  in  some  picture  by 
the  old  masters.  Her  hair,  of  a  rich 
chestnut  brown,  hung  in  a  flood  of  light  up- 
on her  neck,  and,  forming  a  waving  halo 
round  her  head,  added  t«>  its  pure  Madonna- 
like  character.  She  was  very  fair,  with  all 


the  first  blush  of  childhood  upon  her  cheeks, 
and  her  small  white  iiand  shone  like  a  lily 
upon  Bell's  grizzly  coat.  Her  eyes — of  so 
deep  a  blue  that  in  this  light  they  seemed 
black — were  fringed  with  the  longest  eye- 
lashes; and  clearly-defined,  dark  eyebrows 
gave  a  character  to  the  otherwise  soft  coun- 
tenance. In  person  she  was  tall ;  and, 
though  so  young,  there  was  already  promise 
of  the  richest  lines  of  contour  in  the  grace- 
ful shoulders,  and  full  and  exquisitely-pro- 
portioned bust.  As  it  had  never  entered 
into  her  head,  or  that  of  her  father,  that  she 
was  approaching  the  age  of  womanhood,  she 
was  still  dressed  like  a  mere  child,  in  a  little 
muslin  frock,  without  any  ornament  of  lace 
or  ruffle,  and  so  short  in  "the  skirts  as  to  al- 
low' a  full  view  of  her  tiny  feet  in  their  well- 
worn  house  slippers.  She  had  no  melan- 
choly expression,  like  poor  Bell,  as  she 
looked  up  into  her  father's  face;  but  con- 
tinued laughing,  and  chattering,  and  playing 
with  the  dog,  occasionally  resting  her  head 
against  her  father's  knee,  or  stroking  the 
thin  hand  which  hung  listlessly  at  his  side. 

Another  figure  sat  somewhat  apart  from 
the  two  principal  ones  ;  but  still  near  enough 
to  enjoy  the  warmth  from  the  fire,  and  mix 
with  perfect  freedom  in  the  conversation. 
This  was  Manon,  Marguerite's  former  nurse, 
and  now  their  only  attendant,  who,  with  a 
respectful  familiarity  still  to  be  found  amongst 
servants  in  the  remote  part  of  France,  al- 
ways took  her  place  near  the  evening  hearth, 
gazing  ever  and  anon  at  her  master,  then  at 
his  child  ;  but  with  the  eternal  stocking  form- 
ing under  her  busy  fingers,  and  which  ap- 
peared to  require  neither  light  nor  thought 
to  aid  its  progress.  Manon  was  a  woman  of 
about  five-and-forty,  perhaps  older,  for  hers 
was  one  of  those  faces  which  never  look 
young,  yet  on  which,  after  a  certain  time, 
years  and  years  pass  away  and  leave  no  fur- 
ther trace.  She  had  the  hard  Celtic  features 
peculiar  to  Brittany,  and  wore  the  usual  cos- 
tume of  the  peasants — the  white  linen  head- 
dress, short  dark  petticoat,  enormous  apron, 
and  bright  handkerchief  pinned  across  her 
bosom,  over  which  hung  a  large  silver  cru- 
cifix. 

The  conversation  was  carried  on  in  good 
French,  which  Manon  understood  well,  al- 
though Breton  was  her  native  tongue.  Mar- 
guerite spoke  with  the  perfectly  pure  accent 
of  a  born  French  child  ;  but  her  father,  al- 
though possessing  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  language,  still  bore  traces,  in  tin-  pro- 
nunciation, of  bring  an  Knglishman. 

"  How  delightful  to  think  that  summer  19 
come  !  v  said  the  girl,  pausing  in  her  play 
with  hello.  "  Do  you  know,  father,  the 
hawthorns  are  in  full  blossom  on  the  warm 
side  of  the  on  hard,  and  the  young  linnets 
arc  hatched,  and  Bruno  thinks  I  shall  have 
some  roses  in  a  fortnight?  What  a  pleas- 
ant summer  we  shall  have,  darling  old  la- 
ther!— you  will  get  so  strong  in  the  sunny, 


PR. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


open  air ;  and,  till  you  are  well  enough  t  > 
walk,  Manon  and  I  will  take  you  down  in  the 
garden-chair  to  the  shore,  and  you  can  sit 
quietly  and  enjoy  the  fresh  sea  breeze,  while 
Bello  and  I  run  about  on  the  sands,  and  keep 
•watch  over  you." 

She  looked  so  hopeful  and  happy,  that  her 
father  had  no  courage  to  tell  her  he  saw 
small  prospect  of  any  summer  weather  mak- 
ing him  strong  again.  His  lips  never  could 
approach  that  cruel  subject  when  talking  to 
his  child ;  although  he  had  several  times  con- 
fided his  forebodings  about  his  state  to  the 
old  servant. 

"  Well,  Marguerite,  I  hope  this  is  not 
your  idea  of  summer,"  he  answered,  smiling; 
"  listen  to  the  wind  and  rain  as  they  drift 
against  the  window.  Where  will  your  early 
flowers  be  to-morrow  ? 

"Only  beaten  down  for  a  day,  father;  by 
Sunday  they  will  be  fresher  than  ever,  and  I 
shall  make  Manon  t!  e  first  bouquet  she  has 
had  this  spring  to  take  to  mass  with  her." 

For  Manon  was,  of  course,  a  rigid  Cath- 
lic,  and,  on  fete  days  and  Sundays,  thought 
nothing  of  the  long,  rough  miles  she  had  to 
walk  to  the  nearest  town  to  church.  The 
rain  or  snow — indeed,  nothing  but  the  ill- 
ness of  her  master — had  ever  kept  her  at 
home ;  and,  in  fine  weather,  Marguerite  fre- 
quently accompanied  her.  Mr.  St.  John 
had  reared  her  in  his  own  simple  faith,  but 
utterly  apart  from  all  sectarian  prejudice ; 
and  it  gave  the  poor  child  such  pleasure  to 
go  to  the  old  cathedral  with  Manon,  and  see 
the  pictures,  the  rich  vestments  of  the  priests, 
the  acolytes  swinging  the  incense,  while  the 
sun  poured  through  the  stained  window  over 
the  altar ;  above  all,  to  listen  to  the  solemn 
peals  of  the  organ,  and  the  sonorous  chant- 
ing of  the  priests,  that  her  father  was  glad 
for  her  to  have  this  one  enjoyment ;  and,  in 
time,  the  cathedral  became  to  her  childish 
fancy  all  imaginable  beauty,  grandeur,  and 
sweet  music  combined.  She  had  a  passion- 
ate love  for  music  herself,  and  Mr.  St.  John 
also  thought  it  good  for  her  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  gratifying  it,  and  of  hearing  any 
*  other  harmony  than  that  of  her  own  voice — 
although,  to  him,  that  was  worth  more  than 
all  the  music  on  earth. 

"  And  if  Sunday  is  fine,"  Marguerite  con- 
tinued, "  I  may  go  with  Manon,  petit  papa? 
— that  is,  if  you  are  very  well,  and  quite  sure 
you  will  not  want  me " 

"  And  if  we  have  no  more  rain  between 
this  and  then,"  chimed  in  Manon.  "  The 
roads  are  not  in  a  state  for  your  little  feet, 
mamie  dame  !  When  I  went  to  church  last 
Sunday,  I  had  often  to  wade  through  the  mire 
and  bog  well  nigh  up  to  my  knees.  Luckily, 
I  had  wrapped  m)  white  stockings  round  my 
prayer-book,  and  put  them  in  my  pocket, 
before  I  set  out." 

"  Oh,  Manon,  how  I  wish  I  had  seen  you  !  " 
cried  Marguerite;  "you  must  have  looked 
so  droll,  with  your  large  ancles  nil  covered 


in  mud.  Never  mind,  Bello,  you  shall  come 
too,  and  carry  me  through  these  wonderful 
torrents  on  your  back,"  and  she  shook  her 
Jong,  bright  curls  over  the  hound's  eyes  to 
wake  him.  He  made  a  start,  but,  on  seeing 
how  matters  stood,  only  gave  his  usual  impa- 
tient bark,  and,  turning  his  head  resolutely 
towards  the  fire,  went  off  again  to  sleep. 
Mr.  St.  John  closed  his  eyes,  wearied,  as  he 
generally  grew  towards  evening ;  and  there 
was  no  sound  for  some  minutes  but  the  oc- 
casional click  of  Manon's  knitting-needles, 
or  the  little  hissing  voices  from  the  wood  fire, 
and  the  eternal  pattering  of  the  rain.  Mar- 
guerite was  just  meditating  going  in  search 
of  her  kitten  to  rouse  up  Bello  and  make 
them  all  less  silent,  when  the  old  clock  in  the 
hall  struck  nine. 

"  Supper-time  already  !  "  she  cried,  jump- 
ing up.  "  How  late  we  are  to-night !  Come, 
Manon,  let  us  get  lights  at  once,  and  make 
the  omelette." 

Manon  carefully  folded  her  work,  having 
first  removed  the  disengaged  pins  from  their 
place  in  her  black  hair,  and  struck  them  with 
much  precision  through  the  stocking ;  then 
she  placed  it  all  in  the  ample  pocket  of  her 
apron,  and  followed  Marguerite  to  the  door. 
They  felt  their  way  through  winding  passages 
and  down  many  treacherous  descents,  until 
they  reached  the  kitchen,  where  Manon,  af- 
ter considerable  groping,  struck  a  light,  and 
they  began  their  evening  labors. 

The  kitchen  was  a  low,  dark,  vaulted  room, 
so  large  that  it  seemed  to  extend  under  the 
whole  ground  floor  of  the  house ;  and  the 
one  candle  and  few  expiring  embers  on  the 
hearth,  instead  of  lighting  its  obscurity,  ap- 
peared only  to  render  it  more  intense.  There 
were  strange  old  closets  and  projections,  be- 
hind which  a  dozen  men  might  lie  concealed, 
in  this  kitchen ;  and  a  ghostly  owl  took  de- 
light in  flapping  his  wings  against  the  case- 
ments of  an  evening;  so,  altogether,  Manon 
was  not  fond  of  frequenting  it  alone  after 
twilight,  and  generally  persuaded  mademoi- 
selle to  accompany  her — for  Marguerite  was 
not  afraid  of  ghosts  or  owls,  and  she  also 
liked  to  assist  with  her  own  hands  in  prepar- 
ing her  father's  supper. 

Manon  on  her  knees,  quickly  succeeded  in 
fanning  the  wood  embers  into  a  blaze ;  the 
savory  omelette  was  soon  upon  the  fire ;  the 
roasted  potatoes  among  the  ashes  declared  to 
be  done  to  perfection  ;  and  then  Marguerite 
filled  the  kettle,  and  got  ready  the  little  tea- 
service.  Mr.  St.  John  retained  his  old  Eng- 
lish liking  for  tea  at  night ;  and  it  was  his 
daughter's  pleasure  to  arrange  it  for  him  her- 
self, and  to  take  care  that  it  was  strong  and 
well  made.  Her  father's  cup  of  good  tea 
was  the  one  extravagance  of  their  houst  hold. 
She  looked  like  a  little  fairy,  contrasted  with 
Manon's  solid  form,  while  she  flitted  about, 
searching  for  the  different  objects  she  requir- 
ed, among  the  uncouth  shadows  of  the  place  ; 
and  her  white,  slender  hands,  and  that  name- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


less  air  of  high  birth  which  was  visible  in 
each  of  her  movements,  seemed  strangely  at 
variance  with  the  place  and  her  occupation. 
She  went  on  chatting  merrily  toManon  in  her 
sweet,  full  voice,  while  the  old  servant,  al- 
though perfectly  familiar,  invariably  answered 
in  a  tone  of  respect  which,  even  to  strangers, 
would  have  expressed  the  difference  of  con- 
dition, and  her  own  sense  of  it. 

"  This  has  been  a  long  day,  Manon,"  said 
Marguerite,  suddenly. 

"  My  days  are  never  long,  mademoiselle  ; 
and  to-day  I  have  been  looking  over  the  last 
year's  preserves  to  see  what  we  must  make 
this  summer.  Will  you  believe  it,  ma  mie, 
two  jars  of  my  best  green-gage  were  empty  ? 
and  I  never  knew  the  mice  to  touch  them 
before." 

"The  mice,  you  silly  old  Manon!  more 
likely  Bruno !  " 

Manon  almost  dropped  the  pan  containing 
her  omelette,  and  her  eyes  flashed  fire. 
**  Bruno  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  If  I  thought 
that  lout — that  idiot — that  cochon  de  paysan 
— had  touched  one  of  my  master's  green  - 
gages,  I  would Bruno,  indeed  ! " 

"  There,"  cried  Marguerite,  "  I  have  made 
you  happy  for  the  night  in  giving  you  Bru- 
no's sins  to  think  over.  Do  you  know,  Man- 
on  I  wish  sometimes  that  Bruno,  or  you,  or 
some  one,  would  do  something  really  wrong  ? 
I  am  so  tired  of  nothing  happening." 

"Nothing  happening!"  echoed  Manon. 
"  Why,  Gilbert,  the  pedlar,  was  here  yester- 
day with  all  the  news  from  Quimper ;  and 
Friday  eight  days  M.  le  Cure  met  us  in  the 
road;  and,  in  three  weeks  we  shall  have  the 

fair  at  N Mon  Dieu,  it  seems  to  me  that 

a  great  deal  happens  !  " 

"Does  it?  "  answered  Marguerite,  dream- 
ily; "well,  I  suppose  so.  But  sometimes, 
lately,  I  have  wished  for  something  more — 
I  cannot  exactly  tell  what.  What  can  I 
want  Manon  ?  " 

tf  Manon  knew,  she  did  not  choose  to  speak  ; 
but,  inspecting  the  omelette  closely,  she  de- 
clared it  to  be  done  a  ravir  ;  and  then,  re- 
marking that  the  carafe  was  empty,  went  off 
to  fill  it  with  fresh  water,  while  Marguerite, 
who  had  to  arrange  the  tray,  forgot  all  about 
her  own  question. 

And  now  the  repast  was  ready,  and  carried 
in  by  Manon,  Marguerite  preceding  her 
with  a  light.  The  .snowy  doth  was  laid,  the 
invalid's  chair  wheeled  round  to  the  table,  and 
Manon  had  taken  her  plan-  behind  her  master, 
when  an  events  iddenly  occurred — for  certain- 
ly thu  lir-t  time,  at  such  an  hour,  within  a  do/.- 
t"n  years — which  made  them  all  start  with  as- 
toni.-liment  :  the  great  bell  of  the  court-yard 
ran;.'.  Mr.  St .  .John  looked  uneasy,  as  an 
invalid  always  does  at  any  imexpeeted  inter- 
ruption of  his  usual  existence.  Manon 
exclaimed,  "  Mon  Dieu  !"  and  crossed  her- 
Bclf;  Hello,  awakened  thi>  time  in  good  ear- 
tve  a  long,  unearthly,  howl,  which 
was  echoed  by  the  fierce  barkings  of  the 


watch-dog  without  ;  while  Marguerite  clap- 
ped her  hands  with  delight  at  "  anything 
happening."  Manon  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  master,  they  must  be  robbers  —  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  it  5  no  visitor  ever  comes 
to  Kersaint,  and  the  country  people  know 
me  better  than  to  dare  ring  at  the  great  bell 
at  this  hour:  we  shall  all  be  murdered.  Ah, 
bon  Dieu,  and  all  the  saints,  help  us-!  " 

Marguerite  laughed  aloud,  and  Mr.  St. 
John  answered  —  "No,  good  Manon;  if 
robbers  were  to  attack  a  house  like  this,  which 
is  not  likely,  they  would  enter  by  the  garden, 
and  not  warn  us  quite  so  loudly  of  their  in- 
tentions. It  is,  more  probably,  some  way- 
farer overtaken  by  the  storm,  and  seeking  a 
night's  shelter." 

"  Then  come,  Manon,"  cried  Marguerite, 
seizing  a  light  with  one  hand,  and  the  ser- 
vant's sleeve  with  the  other;  "let  us  open 
the  door  at  once,  and  admit  this  poor  travel- 
ler to  our  fire.  Father,  toll  her  to  come 
with  me  !  "  —  for  Manon  visibly  hesitated,  and 
drew  back. 

"  Nay.  Marguerite,  "he  answered,  "though 
I  have  small  fear  of  robbers,  yet,  at  this  un- 
usual hour,  it  would  certainly  be  well  to  hold 
some  parley  through  the  little  lattice,  before 
opening  the  gates.  I  will  go  myself,  and  as- 
certain the  character  of  our  visitors,  and  do 
you  remain  here  until  my  return  ;  "  and  he 
rose  feebly  from  his  seat.  But  to  the  last 
proposal  his  daughter  and  Manon  made  so 
instant  and  decided  a  resistance,  that  Mr. 
St.  John  was  soon  obliged  to  give  them  their 
own  way.  He  must  remain  quietly  by  the 
fireside,  while  they  proceeded  to  the  lattice  ; 
and  if,  after  scrutinizing  the  strangers,  they 
were  not  satisfied  with  their  appearance, 
Marguerite  would  return  and  tell  him  the  re- 
sult; and  Bello,  meanwhile,  should  go  as 
their  protector.  So  they  left^b^-pom  ;  but 
Manon  first  placed  the  omeletjMpti  potatoes^ 
on  a  stand  before  the  fire.  No  excitement 
made  her  forget  her  master's  comfort;  and, 
although  she  had  just  declared  that  they 
would  all  be  robbed  and  murdered,  she 
seemed  to  think  it  well  to  keep  tin:  supper 
hot  until  the  completion  of  the  tragedy. 

The  little  window  mentioned  by  Mr.  St. 
John  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  con- 
cierge, or,  iu  more  ancient  times  -till,  to  t^e 
manoir-warden,  and  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  loop-hole  through  the  solid  masonry  on 
the  outer  side  of  the  court  facing  the  road  ; 


so  that,  in  daylight,  it  commanded  a 
view  of  any  person  standing  hctinv  the  -ales. 
Having  lighted  a  lantern,  Manon  undid 
the  manifold  bolls  of  the  house-door,  her 
healthy,  red  face  being,  b\  thi-  lime. 
al  shades  paler  than  usual,  and  Accompanied 
by  Hello,  they  both  ran  throu-li  the  rain, 
across  the  courtvard.  and  gained  tin-  shelter 
of  the  gn-at  Outer  gates.  There,  a  winding 
stone  staircase  led  them  up  ml"  the  small 
chamber,  or,  more  properly  -peaking,  look- 
out —  for  there  was  scarcely  euou;;h  room  iu 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


it  for  more  than  one  person  at  a  time — in 
which  the  loophole  window  was  placed. 
After  some  difficulty,  Manon  undid  the  rusty 
fastenings  of  the  casement,  and,  with  con- 
siderable trepidation  of  manner,  looked  out 
first.  But  such  a  torrent  of  rain  and  sleet 
beat  into  her  face  as  nearly  blinded  her,  and 
she  quickly  drew  back  her  head,  exclaiming 
angrily — Milles  tonnerres  !  "  which,  under 
the  circumstances,  was  not  inappropriate. 
Marguerite,  with  a  stifled  laugji,  next  at- 
tempted, but  with  almost  similar  success. 
They  had  entirely  forgotten  that,  while  the 
light  from  their  own  lantern  rendered  their 
movements  perfectly  clear  to  any  person 
without,  they  were  themselves  unable  to  see 
an  inch  after  the  profound  darkness  of  the 
night. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  whispered  Mar- 
guerite, upon  whose  courage  the  gloom  and 
uncertainty  were  beginning  to  tell  a  little ; 
"  had  we  better  go  down  and  speak  through 
the  door,  or " 

"  Return  to  the  house  at  once,  and  not  look 
at  them  at  all/'  added  Manon,  quickly,  as 
another  vigorous  peal  of  the  bell  close  be- 
side them  made  them  both  start  again. 

**  No,  no,  Manon,  it  may  be  some  poor 
travellers  seeking  for  shelter,  as  my  father 
said.  Let  us  first  fasten  up  the  chain,  so  that 
they  cannot  enter,  and  then  open  the  gate  an 
inch  or  two,  and  speak  to  them." 

Manon  unwillingly  complied ;  and  after 
much  delay,  caused  by  the  trembling  of  her 
great  strong  hands,  the  gate  was  opened. 
She  was,  by  this  time,  so  gasping  and  fright- 
ened, that  she  could  not  get  out  a  word ;  so 
Marguerite  advanced  her  own  face  to  the 
small  space  which  was  left  open,  to  be  speak- 
er; while  Mancn  held  the  light,  exactly 
where  it  was  in  no  service  in  seeing  the 
strangers,  buHell  full  upon  the  girl's  figure, 
£nd  long  sfBBfciing  hair  ;  and  old  Bello  snarl- 
ed and  showea  every  tooth  in  his  head,  as  he 
stood,  waiting  to  seize  upon  anybody's  legs 
who  might  enter. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Marguerite,  rather 
faintly,  in  French,  of  course ;  ••  and  do  you 
wish  to  come  irr*  "  * 

Whether  it  was  this  question,  or  the  sight 
of  the  enraged  old  hound,  and.  Manon's  ter- 
rified face,  or  all  combined,  which  produced 
the  effect,  is  unknown ;  but  a  suppressed 
laugh  was  the  first  reply.  Marguerite's  cour- 
age returned  at  the  sound. 

"  Turn  the  lantern  this  way,  so  that  we 
can  see  them, "she  whispered,  looking  round. 
Manon  did  so,  and  the  light  streamed — not 
upon  a  band  of  robbers — but  upon  the  face 
of  one  young  and  handsome  man,  who,  per- 
fectly drenched  with  rain,  stood  outside  in 
the  road. 

"  Eh,  mon  Dieu ! "  exclaimed  Marguerite, 
reassured  in  a  moment,  "  if  I  had  only  known 
it  was  you.  Wait  one  moment,  please,"  and, 
aided  by  Manon,  she  hastily  withdrew  the 
chain,  having  first  silenced  Bello  with  an 


admonition  to  be  friendly,  which  he  appeared 
rather  imperfectly  to  understand,  as  he  still 
continued  showing  his  teeth,  and  uttering  a 
low,  dissatisfied  growl.  The  stranger  entered, 
his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  the  water  literally 
streaming  from  his  clothes  and  hair,  and  be- 
gan an  apology  for  disturbing  them,  in  toler- 
able French,  but  which  Marguerite  knew  in 
a  moment  to  be  that  of  a  foreigner. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  found  our  house," 
she  replied,  in  English;  "  my  father  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you,  and  he  is  an  English- 
man. You  are  very  welcome  to  Kersaint.." 

The  young  stranger  looked  well  pleased 
with  his  reception ;  and,  when  he  had  assis- 
ted in  replacing  the  chain,  they  all  crossed 
the  court  together.  But,  after  entering  the 
house,  and  just  as  Manon  had  re-fastened 
the  bolts,  while  Marguerite  was  waiting  impa- 
tiently to  conduct  the  visitor  to  Mr.  St.  John, 
Bello  overturned  the  lantern,  which  had  been 
placed  on  the  floor,  and  they  were  suddenly 
left  in  utter  darkness. 

"  Never  mind,"  cried  Marguerite,  laugh- 
ing, '*  I  know  the  house  quite  as  well  at 
night  as  in  the  day.  Give  me  your  hand, 
please,  and  I  will  take  you  to  my  father." 

The  stranger  resigned  his  hand,  nothing 
loth,  to  her  little  warm  touch ;  and  she  led 
him  on  through  endless  windings  and  passa- 
ges, occasionally  saying,  "Now  down  one 
step — now  up  two  steps,"  until  he  began  to 
think  he  was  in  some  enchanted  house  with- 
out an  end.  At  length,  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  salle ;  there  Marguerite  whispered, 
"  Just  wait  one  moment  here,  while  I  go  in ; 
for  my  father  is  not  strong,  and  I  must  pre- 
pare him  to  see  you ;  "  and,  entering  the 
room,  she  closed  the  door,  with  the  simplici- 
ty of  a  child,  exactly  in  his  face ;  while 
Manon  made  many  apologies,  and  vainly 
groped  about  for  a  light. 

"  It  was  a  traveler,  and  I  have  let  him  in, 
father.  He  is  quite  young,  very  handsome, 
and  an  Englishman — and,  oh,  so  wet !  "  cried 
Marguerite  ;  while  the  stranger,  just  outside 
the  door,  naturally  heard  every  word. 

*'  An  Englishman !  "  echoed  her  father, 
rising  from  his  seat,  and  an  expression  of 
pleasure  crossing  his  face.  "  An  Englishmai 
at  Kersaint! — this  is,  indeed,  strange — aftb. 
more  than  fifteen  years,  to  meet  one  of  my 
countrymen  again  !  Well,  he  shall  receive 
all  the  welcome  we  have  to  offer;  but  where 
have  you  left  him,  child  ? — not  still  shivering 
in  the  cold,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  father!"  returned  Marguerite, 
triumphant  at  her  own  management.  "  He 
is  quite  close — only  just  outside  the  door ;  " 
and  she  returned  to  open  it.  Mr.  St.  John 
advanced  to  meet  the  stranger,  with  the  easy 
courtesy  of  a  man  who  had  been  long  used 
to  good  society.  He  shook  his  hand,  and 
made  many  excuses  for  their  suspicious  mode 
of  giving  him  welcome,  adding — "  But  as  I 
have  lived  in  this  lonely  spot  for  sixteen 
years  and  you  are  my  fiist  evening  visitor, 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


you  will  understand  that  we  are  somewhat 
cautious  of  opening  our  doors  after  nightfall.'1 

The  Englishman  said  that  he  ought  to 
apologise  himself  for  disturbing  the  house- 
hold at  such  an  unseasonable  hour.  He  was 
traveling  through  Brittany  alone,  and  on  foot, 
and,  having  lost  his  way,  had  been  overtaken 
by  the  storm,  and  was  almost  blinded  with 
the  beating  rain,  when  he  suddenly  found 
himself  under  the  walls  of  the  chateau,  and 
rang  the  bell,  in  hopes  of  finding  it  inhabited. 
"Although,"  he  added,  "with  little  expec- 
tation of  meeting  so  kindly  a  reception  ;  " 
and  he  glanced  at  Marguerite. 

"  But  now,11  returned  Mr.  St.  John,  "  be- 
fore you  partake  of  refreshment,  which  you 
must  so  greatly  need,  or  even  approach  the 
fire,  you  must  at  once  change  your  dripping 
garments.  Manon,  take  this  gentleman  to 
my  room,  and  help  him  to  find  whatever  he 
requires  among  my  wardrobe." 

The  stranger,  however,  pointing  to  a  small 
waterproof  knapsack  slung  across  his  should- 
ers, said  he  was,  fortunately,  provided  with  a 
dry  suit  of  clothes,  and,  in  five  minutes, 
would  be  ready  to  join  them  at  the  supper- 
table  ;  and  he  then  accompanied  Manon,  up- 
stairs. It  was  not  long  before  he  re-appear- 
ed. In  the  meantime,  Manon  had  added 
some  dainties  from  her  store-room  to  their 
repast,  and  Marguerite  prepared  some  fresh 
tea ;  while  her  tongue  ran  on  in  a  perfect 
maze  of  delightful  bewilderment  at  the  ad- 
venture. 

"  My  own  countryman — the  first  I  ever 
saw  but  you,  father — and  so  handsome,  and 
such  a  soft  voice !  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it  all  before.  Oh  !  we  must  ask  him  to  stay 
a  long  time  at  Kersaint — it  will  be  such  a 
new  life  for  us  to  have  a  visitor ;  and — and — 
I  shall  have  no  time  to  go  with  you  to  church 
on  Sunday,  Manon." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  entrance  of  the  stranger  cut  short 
Marguerite's  words ;  and  the  little  party 
aoon  Mat  down  to  their  evening  meal.  Bel- 
lo,  although  partly  reassured,  kept  very  close 
to  his  master,  and  occasionally  eyed  the  new 
comer  from  under  his  shaggy  brows  with  no 
friendly  expression,  as  though  aggrieved  at 
this  interruption  of  their  accustomed  life ; 
but  upon  the  human  members  of  the  lonely 
household  the  guests  quickly  produced  a  most 
favorable  impre»ion.  Mr.  St.  John's  pale 
face  grew  almost  animated  while  listening  to 
his  lively  account  of  his  Breton  adventures; 
Marguerite's  open*  delight  expressed  itself 
both  in  looks  and  words;  and  Manon,  who 
could  not  understand  the  conversation,  leis- 
urely surveyed  his  handsome  face  and  fine 
linen,  and  mentally  decided  that  he  waa  a 


worthy  guest  to  sit  at  their  table.  It  waa 
certainly  a  face  upon  which  nobility — if  not 
of  birth,  that  of  soul — was  legibly  written. 

The  Englishman  was  pale,  and  though 
young — apparently  about  four  or  five-and- 
twenty — had  already  that  care-worn  look 
which  can  arise  onlv  from  some  deep  sorrow, 
or  a  too  early  knowledge  of  life  and  its  pas- 
sions. His  forehead  was  high  and  fair;  his 
features  regular,  and  nobly  cast ;  and  hi* 
eyes,  somewhat  deeply  set,  had  a  mingled 
expression  of  grave  intellect  and  youthful 
softness,  which  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to  his 
face.  He  was  rather  above  the  middle  height, 
but  slightly  made ;  and  Manon  thought  she 
had  never  seen  such  small  fair  hands  before. 
Marguerite's  gaze  was  quite  as  free  as  the 
old  servant's ;  but  what  she  noticed  most 
was  the  kindly  expression  of  the  stranger 
when  he  addressed  herself,  and  the  unusual- 
ly musical  tones  of  his  voice.  And.  as  Mar- 
fuerite's  world  had  hitherto  been  limited  to 
er  father,  the  cure,  Manon,  and  the  Breton 
peasants,  it  is  not  surprising  that  her  admir- 
ation for  their  new  guest  bordered  upon  the 
enthusiastic. 

"  I  hope  you  like  our  Bretagne,"  she  said, 
when  a  pause  emboldened  her  to  speak. 

"  What  I  have  seen  of  it  and  its  people 
as  yet,"  he  answered,  "  has  interested  me 
greatly  ;  especially  in  this  wild,  sea-side  dis- 
trict, where  I  hope  to  linger  away  half  the 
summer"  (her  face  grew  so  bright).  "  But 
you  say  our  Bretagne — have  you  then  given 
up  your  claim  to  be  Saxon,  as  the  people 
here  call  us  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  answered  her  father,  "  poor  little 
Marguerite  forgets  sometimes  that  she  is 
English.  She  was  born  in  this  old  house, 
where  her  whole  childhood  has  since  been 
passed ;  and  has  never  known  anything  but 
the  rocks  and  forests  of  Brittany.  You  are 
the  first  Englishman,  excepting  myself,  that 
she  has  ever  seen  ;  and,  but  that  I  make  it  a 
point  for  her  to  read  with  me  in  her  own 
language  every  day,  she  would  long  ago 
have  been  French  "in  that  as  in  everything 
else.  Even  as  it  is,  I  suppose,  she  speaks 
like  a  foreigner;  for  Manon  is  much  with  us 
in  our  primitive  life,  and  we  never  converse 
before  her  in  a  language  she  cannot  under- 
stand;  and  our  good  friend  the  cure,  who 
occasionally  spend!  the  winter  evenings  with 
us,  has  been  Marguerite's  French  teacher 
from  her  infancy/1 

"  I  certainly"  thought  your  daughter  was 
French,"  replied  the  stranger;  "though 
speaking  English  unusually  well." 

"  Ah!  I  want  practice,'1  replied  Marguer- 
ite, rather  indignantly  :  "for,  father,  \<>u 
know  you  read  all  day,  except  when  \  on  are 
teaching  me,  and  then  in  the  evening  we 
must  talk  French  for  Manon.  Now  that 
monsieur  is  come,  however/'  she  added,  "  f 
shall  have  seme  one  to  t  ilk  to;"  and  she 
glanced  at  the  voiing  Englishman ,  who  could 
not  forbear  smiling  at  her  childish 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


gions,  and  utter  absence  of  what  is  usually 
called  manner.  He  resumed  his  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  St.  John,  but  in  a  few  min- 
utes Marguerite  rose,  and  going  to  her  fa- 
ther's side  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
•whispered  something.  He  smiled  and  shook 
his  head ;  but  she  insisted,  and  then  looking 
towards  his  guest,  Mr.  St.  John  said — '*  Al- 
though my  little  daughter  has  been  brought 
up  among  wilds  and  deserts  all  her  life,  she 
has  still  the  natural  curiosity  of  her  sex  at 
heart ;  and  cannot  rest  until  she  has  heard 
the  name  of  our  visitor/' 

"Oh!  petit  papa,"  interrupted  Marguer- 
ite; "  when  you  know  I  wished  you  to  ask 
for  yourself,  and  not  for  me ! "  and  she 
blushed  crimson  ;  but  still  fixed  her  eyes  in- 
tently upon  the  young  Englishman,  as  though 
the  subject  were  one  of  all-engrossing  inter- 
est. 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  looked 
somewhat  confused,  and  the  slightest  shade 
of  color  rose  in  his  own  face  at  the  question  ; 
but  quickly  recovering  his  composure  he  re- 
plied, "  I  am  only  too  happy  to  satisfy  mad- 
emoiselle's wish.  My  name  is  Philip  Earns- 
cliffe."  And  his  tone  seemed  to  imply  that 
in  hearing  that  answer,  his  new  friend  would 
at  once  be  acquainted  with  h  s  history.  But 
Mr.  St.  John  simply  bowed  with  the  air  of 
one  who  hears  a  perfectly  unknown  name, 
and  Marguerite  communicated  the  discovery 
to  Manon  in  French,  adding  in  a  whisper, 
44  that  she  thought  Philip  Earnscliffe  the 
most  beautiful  name  in  the  whole  world ;  " 
while  the  stranger  himself  was  evidently  re- 
lieved at  the  unconscious  manner  of  his  host 
on  hearing  his  name. 

"  And  now,  Marguerite,  as  your  own  cu- 
riosity is  satisfied,  perhaps  you  will  tell  Mr. 
Earnscliffe  how  we  out-of-the-world  people 
call  ourselves,"  said  her  father. 

"Pray  do  so,"  added  the  stranger.  "I 
may  now  confess  that,  for  the  last  hour,  I 
also  have  wished  to  ask  that  question." 

They  had  left  the  supper-table,  and  were 
all  seated  round  the  fire ;  Marguerite  in  her 
old  place  at  her  father's  feet,  with  her  arm 
over  Bello,  who  was  gladly  forgetting  his 
injuries  under  the  influence*  of  warmth  and 
sleep  ;  and  Mr.  Earnscliffe  placed  where  his 
eyes  could  rest  fully  upon  the  little  group. 
Marguerite  looked  up  at  him,  when  her  fa- 
ther spoke,  with  that  full,  confiding  gaze, 
never  seen  save  on  the  face  of  a  child,  and 
replied  gravely — "  My  father's  name  is  Per- 
cy, and  mine  is  Marg'uerite  Lilla  St.  John. 
Marguerite,  after  my  little  sister,  who  died 
before  I  was  born,  and  Lilla,"  she  added, 
very  softly,  "  after  my  own  dear  mother.  I 
never  saw  her,  monsieur ;  she  left  us  alone," 
touching  her  father's  hand,  "  when  I  was 
born." 

Her  father's  face  clouded  at  these  recol- 
lections;  and  he  soon  grew  so  pale  and  si- 
ent,  that  Manon,  who  was  hovering  about 


the  background,  came  forward,  and  remind- 
ed him  that  it  was  long  past  his  usual  hour 
for  rest ;  then,  turning  respectfully  to  Earns- 
cliffe, she  said — "  My  master  is  not  very 
strong  at  present,  sir ;  and  mademoiselle  and 
I  are  obliged  to  keep  watch  over  his  health." 

The  guest  having  entreated  that  Mr.  St. 
John  would  not  remain  longer,  out  of  cere- 
mony towards  him,  he  rose;  and  then  the 
Englishman  first  fully  saw  how  thin  and 
weak  he  was.  He  extended  his  hand  to 
Earnscliffe,  and  said,  kindly,  he  should  hope 
on  the  morrow  to  rise  stronger,  and  be  bet- 
ter able  to  entertain  him,  adding — "  At  all 
events,  my  little  one  will  be  only  too  de- 
lighted to  show  you  all  the  walks  and  won- 
ders of  the  neighborhood ;  and  I  hope  you 
will  spend  as  long  a  time  at  Kersaint  as  you 
can  find  anything  to  interest  you." 

Earnscliffe  heartily  accepted  this  invita- 
tion, and,  after  bidding  him  "  good  night,* 
his  host  withdrew — first  kissing  his  daughter, 
and  saying,  in  a  low  voice,  "  But  you,  my 
child,  can  stay  up  longer  and  entertain  oui 
guest." 

"  And  not  help  you,  father?  " 

"  No,  not  to-night,  darling."  And  he 
took  Manon's  arm,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

Marguerite  had  a  confused  idea  that  po- 
liteness required  her  to  remain  by  the  visit- 
or's side ;  but  when  she  saw  her  father,  foi 
the  first  time  since  his  last  serious  illness, 
going  up  to  his  room  without  her  attendance, 
the  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes,  and  she 
turned  round  to  Earnscliffe — "  Oh  !  I  must 
go  with  him,  sir,  if  you  please.  I  will  not 
be  long — but,  indeed,  I  cannot  see  him 
walking  so  feebly,  and  not  help  as  well  as 
Manon  !  " 

Earnscliffe  begged  her  to  do  so  ;  and,  run- 
ning lightly  to  her  father's  side,  she  sup- 
ported him  with  her  own  firm  young  arm  ; 
while  the  poor  invalid  smiled  gratefully  at 
his  child's  warm  love,  which  nothing  could 
for  a  moment  turn  aside. 

The  stranger  was  left  alone,  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  door  through  which  Mr.  St. 
John  and  his  daughter  had  disappeared ; 
and  a  gloomy  expression  crossed  his  face,  a* 
he  recalled  the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed. 
"This  dying  man,"  he  thought,  '•  living  in, 
the  midst  of  a  dreary  solitude,  and  with  pain, 
and  suffering  written  upon  his  teatures,  po.s-- 
sesses  the  priceless  treasure  of  human  love,, 
which  I,  with  youth  and  health,  have  nevec 
found  in  the  world.  He  is  happy  in  all  tht» 
first  affection  of  that  girl's  young  heart » 
And  what  a  lovely  being  she  is!"  he  contin- 
ued, to  himself.  "  With  the  unconscious 
grace  of  a  perfect  woman,  and  the  artless- 
ness  of  a  child.  How  she  looked  at  me,  and 
smiled,  and  then  turned  away  her  little  head, 
blushing,  only  to  look  again  a  moment  after- 
wards ! "  He  thought  for  some  minutes, 
then  said,  half  aloud — ' '  It  will  be  better  for 
her,  and  for  me,  too,  perhaps,  that  1  should 


10 


PHILIP  EAEXSCLIFFE. 


leave  them  to-morrow  morning;'1  and  he 
turned  round,  and  walked  up  and  down  be- 
fore the  fire. 

But,  as  still  he  continued  alone,  his  late 
companions  seemed  gradually  to  lose  their 
recent  tangible  forms,  and  to  fade,  into  a 
mere  creation  of  his  own  brain.  The  lonely 
spot  in  which  he  bad  suddenly  met  two  such 
beings  as  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  daughter — 
the  manner  of  their  introduction — the  cha- 
teau with  its  old-world  furniture — the  dim 
outline  of  the  gigantic  hound  who  lay  out- 
stretched upon  the  hearth,  and  the  weird 
voices  of  the  storm,  which  still  beat  against 
the  windows — all  combined  to  give  to  the 
evening's  adventure  something  dreamy  and 
unlife-fike ;  and  Marguerite  seemed  to  him 
more  like  some  Breton  fairy,  than  a  real 
blooming  inhabitant  of  that  gloomy  house. 
"  She  is  a  mere  child,  too,"  be  went  on  at 
length — '  *  a  lovely  little  meadow-daisy — but 
no  more !  What  can  she  be  to  me,  but  a 
pretty,  wild  idea  for  the  heroine  of  my  next 
book?  Why,  her  whole  innocent  life  pre- 
cludes any  other  thoughts,  even  if  my  own 
position  did  not.  I  will  stay  and  make  this 
fresh  nature  my  study,  and  leave  them  in  'a 
few  days.  I  have  had  enough  of  love" — he 
smiled  bitterly — "without  adding  another 
failure  to  my  experience ;  and  if  I  do  create 
any  feeling  in  this  girl's  heart,  it  will  be  only 
the  awakening  of  a  first  fancy,  no  deeper 
than  that  of  a  child  for  a  new  toy.  All  her 
love  is  given  to  her  father ;  and  if  it  were 
cot  so,  fche  would  run  small  danger  from 
me." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  little  meadow- 
daiiy  entering  herself,  interrupted  his  medi- 
tations upon  her.  She  approached  him,  her 
face  radiant  with  a  grave  happiness. 

"You  have  done  my  father  good  al- 
ready !  "  she  cried.  Although  he  is  tired,  he 
is  BO  cheerful,  and  glad  to  have  heard  an 
English  voice.  Manon  says — and  she  un- 
derstands well  about  his  health — that  it  will 
do  him  more  good  than  taking  all  the  med- 
ia the  world  to  have  a  new  companion. 
I  know  so  little,  you  see,"  she  added,  hum- 
bly, that  I  am  not  enough  for  him." 

Earnscliffe  thought  bow  charming  it  was 
when  a  woman  knew  so  little;  but  he 
checked  a  rising  compliment,  and  only  in- 
quired if  her  father  had  been  long  ill. 

.. !  do  not  call  him  ill,"  she  answered, 
with  a  look  of  sudden ,  terror.  "  Surely  you 
do  not  think  that  my  father  is  ill  ?  " 

II'  r  \oice  faltered;  and,  to  the  beseech- 

n  <>i  h'-r  •  -'  liffe  could 

nswer,  gently,    "that  he  meant  Mr. 

St.  John  appeared  delicate  and  to  require 

care." 

- !  he  is  not  very  strong  at  present; 
but  tin  n%  you  know,  we  have  had  a  long. 
col<l  \\i:it«  r,  and  he  has  not  had  nun-h  <>p- 
portunjty  yet  of  recovering  from  his  illmv 
in  the  autumn,  wh< n  IK-  li.nl  a  linp-rii 
fever.  Now  that  the  summer  La 


can  be  out  all  day  in  the  garden,  and  gain 
his  strength.  Should  you  not  think  he  will 
be  quite  well  in  two  or  three  month?  ?  " 

Earnscliffe  tried  to  join  in  her  hopes,  al- 
though his  own  conviction  was  that  Mr.  St. 
John  had  not  long  to  live ;  but  her  terrified 
look  at  the  mere  idea  of  her  father  being 
seriously  ill,  made  him  turn  from  the  subject, 
and  he  began  inquiring  how  she  spent  her 
own  time  in  summer.  This  was  a  theme  on 
which  Marguerite  could  be  eloquent.  She 
told  him  of  all  the  wild  haunts  on  the  sea- 
shore—of the  distant  caves  among  the  St. 
Hernot  rocks — of  the  one  small,  sunny  bay 
so  hard  to  reach,  even  at  low  water,  but 
where  you  were  sure  to  find  the  most  beau- 
tiful shells  and  sea-weed — of  the  high  cliff, 
from  whence  there  was  the  widest  view — of 
the  ruined  chapel — the  heath — the  fir-forests 
— the  meadows,  now  full  of  primrose  and 
hepatica — the  hawthorn  lane,  with  the  lin- 
net's nest — and,  lastly,  of  their  own  orchard 
and  garden;  ending' it  all  with — "But,  if 
to-morrow  is  only  fine,  I  will  take  you  to 
see  our  walks,  and  then  you  will  believe 
what  a  happy  place  this  is  in  summer." 

He  listened  with  evident  interest,  and  en- 
couraged her  to  proceed  with  her  descrip- 
tions. It  was  something  strangely  new  to 
him  to  listen  to  such  conversation  as  hers ; 
and  he  found  a  singular  pleasure  in  gazing 
down  upon  her  animated  features,  and  hear- 
ing all  her  childish  accounts  of  her  life. 
Marguerite  soon  forgot  that  she  had  only 
known  him  two  hours ;  and  when  Manon  at 
length  entered,  she  found  the  guest  still 
standing  by  the  fire,  with  Marguerite  close 
to  his  side,  shaking  very  earnestly,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face. 

.Monsieur's  room  is  ready,"  said  Man- 
on  ;  ••  and,  after  bis  cold  drenching,  he 
should  endeavor  to  get  a  good  night's  rest- 
it  is  past  eleven  o'clock." 

"  Past  eleven  !  "  echoed  Marguerite,  who 
had  never  been  up  so  late  before.  "  Why, 
how  quickly  the  time  has  gone !  I  thought 
it  was  only  ten  minutes  since  my  father  left 

n 

It  was  impossible  for  the  stranger  not  to 
feel  somewhat  pleased  at  this  naif  acknowl- 
t,  from  such  a  mouth ;  and  as  be 
looked  in  her  glowing  face,  he  thought  he 
had  never,  among  all  the  beauties  of  London, 
seen  any  one  to  compare  with  the  little 
meadow-daisy,  Marguerite.  She  held  out 
her  hand  with  the  m<  frankness, 

_  him  ••  Good  night;  "  and  Earnscliffe 
:  inon  up  the  oak  staircase,  and 
•-e  winding  passages  of  the  first  floor, 
to  tl.e  room  prepared  tor  him — a  <jiia:: 

,  all  him;:  with  faded  blue  arras,  and 
•  •  i-nuld  hear  tl.  "f  the 

ws :  but  a  « 
fill  wood  tire  Ma/,  d  on  the  hearth,  and  made 

and  sound   >1« .  p  to 
ur,"  said  Manon,  as  she  handed  him  the 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


11 


light,  and  took  a  last  look  round  the  room, 
to  see  that  all  was  in  comfortable  order  for 
the  stranger.  Then  she  dosed  the  door, 
and  descended  to  her  young  mistress.  Mar- 
guerite was  still  standing  in  the  same  place, 
with  Bello  sound  asleep  at  her  feet,  wishing 
the  morrow  were  come,  and  wondering  why 
the  whole  world  had  suddenly  grown  so 
bright. 

"Is  it  not  delightful,  Manon  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  her  nurse  re-entered. 

"What,  mamie?" 

"Why,  having  a  visitor,  of  course — and 
such  a  visitor !  Oh  !  Manon,  how  unlike  any 
one  here,  with  his  gentle  manner  and  low 
voice  !  And  he  spoke  so  beautifully  to  my 
father — and  yet  did  not  mind  listening  to  my 
childish  talk.  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  so 
handsome  ?  " 

"  This  young  man  is  good  looking,"  re- 
plied the  other,  in  a  tone  which  sounded 
very  cold  to  Marguerite,  "  and  his  shirt 
front  is  of  the  finest  batiste  I  ever  saw ;  but 
he  has  a  look  at  times  which  is  much  too 
grave  for  such  a  young  face.  I  don't  be- 
lieve his  life  has  been  as  happy  as  ours,  ma 
mie ! " 

And  Manon  was  right. 


CHAPTER  III. 

« 

PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE  had  lived  and  suf- 
fered more  than  the  generality  of  men  at  six- 
and-twenty.  His  parents  bo'th  died  during 
his  early  childhood,  and  circumstances  had 
thrown  him,  when  a  mere  boy,  upon  the 
treacherous  sea  of  London  society.  Gifted 
to  no  common  extent — handsome,  warm- 
hearted, generous,  and,  above  all,  the  heir 
to  an  immense  fortune,  Earnscliffe  had  not 
wanted  friends.  Few,  indeed,  could  look 
on  his  fair,  noble  face,  or  hear  the  tones  of 
his  singularly  sweet  voice,  without  becom- 
ing interested  in  him ;  but,  unfortunately, 
his  lot  lay  among  a  class  of  persons,  of  all, 
the  least  likely  to  conceive  really  disinter- 
ested attachments,  or  to  assist  in  the  forma- 
tion of  a  character,  which  natural  softness 
and  absence  of  all  relf-reliance  made  only 
too  ductile. 

Philip's  mother  was  a  woman  of  high  fam- 
ily— which  family  she  was  considered  to  have 
irrevocably  disgraced,  by  eloping  with  her 
brothers  tutor  at  the  very  time  her  mother 
was  planning  her  marrfage  with  a  hoary- 
headed  foreign  prince.  Mr.  Earnscliffe  was 
a  gentleman  by  birth  as  in  feeling,  and  was 
also  a  scholar  of  no  mean  attainments ;  but 
he  was  poor,  and  without  connection  or  in- 
fluence in  the  church;  and  all  the  happy 
married  life  of  Philip's  parents  was  spent  in 
an  obscure  and  very  small  living  in  the  north 
of  England.  For  the  outraged  family  of 


EarnsclifiVs  wife  would  not  bestow  any  of 
their  church  patronage  upon  the  man  who 
had  disgraced  them ;  and,  indeed,  held  no 
communication  whatever  with  their  daughter 
from  the  hour  of  her  marriage.  Philip  was 
the  only  offspring  of  the  union,  and  all  the 
fond  love  of  these  two  gentle  hearts  was 
centered  in  their  lovely,  promising  child. 

But  when  the  boy  was  about  four  years 
old,  Mr.  EarnscliftVs  health,  at  no  time  ro- 
bust, began  visibly  to  decline.  The  strong, 
vigorous  air  of  the  north  had  never  suited 
him,  although  he  had  not  felt  himself  justi- 
fied in  giving  up  his  small  living  for  this 
cause ;  and  not  until  it  was  too  late,  did  his 
agonised  wife  read  in  his  face,  and  in  the 
evasive  answers  of  the  country  physician, 
that  the  fiat  had  gone  forth — and  they  were 
to  part.  But,  from  the  first,  something  told 
her  she  would  not  long  survive  her  husband. 
She  had  been  his  so  exclusively,  from  the 
moment  her  own  family  cast  her  off,  and  in 
their  lonely  life  they  had  seen  so  little  of  any 
but  each  other,  that  her  very  existence  seem- 
ed bound  up  in  that  of  Earnscliffe,  as  every 
will  and  thought  of  her  heart  were  depend- 
ent upon  his.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  child, 
perhaps  neither  of  them  would  have  greatly 
grieved  to  leave  the  world,  where  they  had 
met  with  so  much  neglect.  But  their  child — 
their  unprotected,  unprovided-for  child — to 
leave  him,  was  indeed  the  bitterness  of  death  ; 
and  all  the  thoughts  of  both  turned  unceas- 
ing!}' upon  him,  and  the  stranger  hands  into 
which  their  unstained  jewel  was  to  be  com- 
mitted. 

Mr,  Earnscliffe  had  one  brother,  many 
years  older  than  himself,  and  a  man  of  enor- 
mous property,  amassed  solely  by  his  own 
endeavors,  in  India.  Their  'father  was  a 
man  of  small  fortune,  and  not  able  to  give 
both  his  sons  a  college  education ;  so  the 
elder,  and  stronger  one,  had  to  make  his  way 
for  himself;  while  the  delicate,  gentle  Her- 
bert was  destined  for  the  church  from  his  in- 
fancy. A  mere  lad,  with  a  few  pounds  in 
his  pocket,  Miles  Earnscliffe  started,  and 
worked  his  way  out  in  a  merchant  vessel. 
On  his  arrival  in  India,  he  got  one  of  the 
most  menial  offices  in  a  large  mercantile  firm  ; 
one  of  the  partners  having  picked  the  boy 
up  for  his  shrewd  face,  but  without  recom- 
mendation. A  dogged,  untiring  persever- 
ance and  thorough  integrity,  united,  certain- 
ly, to  some  degree  of  good  fortune,  raised 
him  step  by  step,  from  errand-boy  to  clerk — 
clerk  to  manager — manager  to  partner — 
until,  at  length,  Miles  Earnscliffe  was  one  of 
the  wealthiest  merchants  in  Calcutta ;  and 
thirty  years  after  he  had  left  his  country  a 
friendless,  penniless  youth,  he  returned  to  it 
with  boundless  wealth,  and  as  many  friends 
as  he  had  rupees.  He  had  never  held  much 
communication  with  his  brother,  and  was  ig- 
norant of  his  marriage,  or  its  results.  Short- 
ly after  his  return,  however,  he  received 
a  letter,  in  which  Herbert,  after  warmly  oon- 


12 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


gratulating  him  on  his  brilliant  fortunes,  gave 
him  a  sketch  of  his  own  life — of  his  marriage, 
and  present  condition — concluding  with  a 
hope  that,  for  the  future,  the  brothers  would 
see  more  of  each  other  than  their  divided 
state  had  hitherto  permitted.  But  with  the 
suspicion  which  long  years  of  lonely  labor, 
and  distrust  of  every  one  but  himself,  had 
engendered,  Miles  Earnscliffe  thought  that 
the  gentle,  affectionate  letter  contained  some 
covert  request  for  money;  and  as  he  read, 
every  feature  in  his  face  worked  with  rage. 
Of  poverty — as  poverty — he  had,  like  all 
self-made  men,  the  most  utter  contempt ; 
but  when  to  this  was  added  education,  re- 
finement, and  the  profession  of  a  gentleman, 
he  could  scarcely  keep  his  hatred  within 
bounds.  He  crunched  the  letter  up,  flung  it 
into  the  fire,  and  paced  up  and  down  his 
lordly  room,  muttering  aloud — "  So,  my  fine 
gentleman  brother,  whose  white  hands  were 
not  made  for  work — with  your  college  edu- 
cation, and  brainful  of  Greek  and  Hebrew — 
you  have  married  a  noble,  titled  beggar, 
whose  family  despise  and  scorn  you  ;  and  I 
— the  low,  vulgar,  hard  working  tradesman- 
brother,  am  to  help  you  and  your  grand 
lady-wife  to  live  !  Never,  by  — "—  I  "  And, 
leaving  his  untasted  breakfast,  he  sat  down, 
and  wrote  Herbert  a  coarse,  unfeeling  let- 
ter; which  the  latter  read  once,  destroyed, 
and  never  even  mentioned  to  his  wife. 

And  thus  ended  the  brothers'  intercourse. 
But  when  death  was  upon  him,  and  Earns- 
cliffe looked  in  his  little  Philip's  face,  pride 
died  in  his  heart.  He  forgot  the  past  insult, 
and  only  remembered  his  isolated  position, 
and  that  his  brother  might  be  the  child's  pow- 
erful friend  and  prelector  for  life.  Accord- 
ingly, after  deep  deliberation,  he  made  a  new 
•will,  appointing  Miles  sole  guardian  of  his 
son,  and  leaving  the  small  property  he  had 
to  bequeath  to  his  care.  This  done,  he 
consigned  the  future  to  the  hands  of  Provi- 
dence ;  rightly  judging  that  his  brother's  iron 
lieart  might  more  readily  soften  to  the  child 
as  an  orphan  than  during  his  parents'  life- 
time. In  three  months  from  this  time  Philip's 
lather  and  mother  were  dead.  Miles  read 
the  announcement  of  his  brother's  death  in 
the  paper;  and,  a  few  weeks  afterwards, 
that  of  his  wife,  and  something  human  smote 
at  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  tho  child;  but 
pride  forbade  him  making  any  inquiries  about 
"  pauper  relations." 

It  was  now  late  in  the  autumn;  and,  one 
cold,  Monny  night,  Miles  sat  alone  in  his 
splendid  dining-room,  over  his  wine.  He 
was  ab.Memious  from  long  habit,  and  never 
took  more  than  two  or  three  glasses  :  so  now 
he  sat,  with  his  empty  glass  at  his  side, 
watching  the  bright  logs  crackle  and  bla/.e 
Upon  the  hearth,  and  listening  to  tin-  mourn- 
ful soughing  of  the  wind,  as  it  beat  fitfully 
Upon  the  windows.  It  sounded  to  him  like 
the  voices  ()f  ;|,e  poor  trying  in  vain  to  en- 
ter the  rich  man's  dwelling,  and  the  unusual 


thought  made  him  turn  restlessly  in  his  easy 
chair. 

"  Will  the  evening  papers  never  come  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  after  again  waiting  long  and 
silently.  "It  is  cursed  lonely  to-night." 
And  the  weary  Croesus  rang  the  bell  impa- 
tiently. 

At  that  moment,  a  knock — a  little  flutter- 
ing knock — came  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"  Come  in  !"  thundered  Miles.  "  What  the 
devil  are  the  idiots  at  now?  scratching  like 
rats,  instead  of  bringing  me  my  paper?  " 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  only  after 
repeated  turnings  of  the  handle,  and  in  came 
— to  old  Miles's  amazement,  and  almost  hor- 
ror— a  child — a  very  small,  young  child, 
dressed  in  the  deepest  black,  and  with  long 
fair  hair  falling  all  round  its  face  and  neck. 

"What  the !"  he  began,  hastily, 

starting  to  his  feet ;  but  the  words  died  un- 
finished on  his  lips — as  still,  slowly,  but  with- 
out the  slightest  trace  of  fear  or  shyness,  the 
child  continued  to  approach  him.  When  he 
was  quite  near,  he  looked  up  in  Miles's  face, 
and  touching  his  hand  with  his  own  little  cold 
finger,  said — "  Are  you  my  uncle?  If  you 
are,  I  have  brought  you  a  letter  from  my 
papa  :"  and  he  pulled  a  sealed  envelope  from 
under  his  dress,  and  held  it  up  to  him. 

Earnscliffe  was  a  cold,  hard,  suspicious, 
worldly  man ;  but  he  was  human — and  in 
every  human  breast  lurks  the  tie  of  blood, 
and  pity  for  a  fatherless  child.  And  as 
Philip,  in  all  the  confidence  of  childhood, 
stood  looking  up  in  his  uncle's  face,  his  lips 
parted,  and  the  golden  curls  falling  back 
from  his  open  brow,  he  recalled  so  strongly, 
in  his  infantine  beauty,  the  image  of  his  own 
father — whom  Miles  had  last  seen,  long  years 
before,  a  bright-eyed  boy,  hanging  round  his 
neck,  and  weeping  before  he  went  to  India — 
that  his  usually  bard  feelings  were  softened 
in  the  sudden  remembrance  of  his  youth; 
and,  seizing  his  nephew  in  his  arms,  he 
kissed  him  with  more  tenderness  than  he  had 
shown  to  anything  for  years.  Philip  wound 
his  little  arms  round  his  neck,  and  stroked 
his  cheek.  His  parents  had  prepared  him  to 
love  him,  and  with  the  ready  warmth  of  his 
nature,  he  already  clung  to  the  uncle,  who 
was  to  supply  their  place  to  him.  Supply 
their  place — poor  child  ! 

On  his  mother's  death,  their  nearest  neigh- 
bors, a  fanner  and  his  wife,  had  taken  Philip 
to  their  house,  as,  they  had  already  promised 
Kanisrlilfe,  and  comforted  him,  in  their 
homelv  fashion,  during  his  first  passionate 
sorrow  ;  but  three  weeks  had  now  elapsed, 
and  already  his  pale  cheeks  wej-e  more  bloom- 
ing, and  lie  began  again  to  laugh  merrily 
o\er  his  play.  In  childhood,  three  weeks  i.1 
an  eternity  of  grief.  The  g I  fanner  had 

himself  tourneyed  with  Philip  to  Miles  Karns- 

cl  i  lie's  door,  and  tin-re  left  him,  as  his  father 
requested,  merely  asking  the  servants  to  al- 
low tin-  boy,  unannounced,  to  enter  his  un- 
cle's presence.  At  first  there  was  considera- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


13 


ble  demur  amo  ng  these  grand  gentlemen  as 
to  the  propriety  of  this  proceeding ;  but 
Phillip  settled  the  matter  for  himself  by 
walking  through  them  all  with  the  air  of  a 
young  pri-nce,  and  knocking  at  the  first  doof 
that  took  his  fancy,  which  chanced  to  be  that 
of  the  dining-room ;  and  thus,  as  we  have 
seen,  introduced  himself  to  his  uncle's  notice. 
Philip  still  nestled  in  his  new  protector's 
arms,  when  the  door  noiselessly  opened, 
and  the  stately  butler  entered,  contrition 
and  apology  duly  impressed  upon  his  fat  fea- 
tures. 

*'  Indeed,  sir,  it  was  quite  against  my 

knowledge,  sir "  he  was  beginning,  when 

he  suddenly  stopped.  The  sight  of  Miles 
Earnscliffe — of  his  master — with  a  child  in 
his  arms,  so  astonished  the  worthy  man,  that 
he  was — to  use  his  own  words  when  describ- 
ing the  scene  afterwards — "  took  all  of  a 
heap,"  and  the  unfinished  sentence  gurgled 
and  choked  in  his  throat. 

Miles  set  the  boy  hastily  on  the  ground, 
enraged  that  one  of  his  own  servants  should 
have  witnessed  his  emotion,  and,  red  with 
passion,  demanded  what  he  meant. 

•'  I  did  not  know,  sir,"  replied  the'gasping 
butler,  "  that  you  might  like  to  be  interrupt- 
ted,  sir— I  thought " 

"And  who  requires  you  to  think,  sir?" 
was  the  reply.  "  My  nephew  can  go  where 
he  pleases  in  my  house,  and  enter  my  din- 
ing-room when  and  as  often  as  he  likes  with- 
out the  interference  of  my  servants.  Send 
Mrs.  Scott  at  once,"  he  added,  as  the  butler, 
very  crest-fallen,  left  the  room;  and  he  was 
again  alone  with  the  new-comer,  who  hoped 
his  uncle  would  never  look  so  angry  at  him 
as  he  did  at  the  big  man  with  the  white  head 
and  black  breeches. 

Mrs.  Scott,  a  thin,  starched,  unpleasant- 
looking,  middle-aged  female,  was  much  ag- 
grieved at  hearing  of  the  unexpected  addi- 
tion to  the  household.  On  the  strength  of 
many  extraordinary  accounts  of  wealthy  na- 
bobs espousing  their  own  housekeepers,  she 
had  been  always  pleased  at  the  isolation  in 
which  her  master  lived,  and  was  disposed  to 
look  with  no  favorable  eye  upon  any  new 
claimant  of  his  attentions.  However,  she 
put  on  her  sweetest  smiles  as  she  proceed- 
ed to  the  dining-room, and  entered,  with  the 
blandest  of  curtsies  to  Miles,  and  what  she 
meant  for  an  encouraging,  motherly  look  at 
Philip,  who  immediately  grasped  his  uncle's 
hand  the  tighter. 

*'  Mrs.  Scott,  my  nephew  having  arrived 
some  days  earlier  than  I  expected,  you  have 
as  yet  received  no  orders  for  his  reception. 
You  will  now  see  a  room  prepared  for  him 
for  to-night,  and  to-morrow  have  nurseries 
and  attendants  got  ready  for  him  at  once." 

The  housekeeper,  with  venom  at  her  heart, 
smiled  most  sweetly  at  this  announcement ; 
and  when  Earnscliffe  added — "  And  now 
take  him  with  you  for  whatever  refreshments 
he  requires,"  held  out  her  hand  with  great 


kindness  to  Philip  ;  but  the  child  turned  away 
from  her,  and  looked  imploringly  at  Miles. 

44  Oh,  let  me  stay  with  you  this  once,  un- 
cle ;  I  like  to  stay  with  you,  and  I  don1*  love 
her,"  pointing  to  Mrs.  Scott.  44  I  will  be  so 
quiet  here."  Miles  chuckled  at  this  speech 
and  at  the  housekeeper's  visible  discomfiture  ; 
and  dismissing  her,  now  fairly  boiling  over 
with  indignation,  prepared  himself  to  spend 
the  evening  alone,  in  company  with  his  broth- 
er's child.  He  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair, 
and  Philip,  drawing  a  little  stool  to  his  feet, 
seated  himself  also. 

44  This  is  how  I  used  to  do  at  home  with 
my  papa,"  said  the  boy;  "and  he  gave  me 
my  dessert  on  a  plate." 

44  Oh — oh  !  "  said  Miles,  '«  I  see  through  it 
all  now  "  and  he  filled  a  plate  with  peaches 
and  grapes,  and  handed  it  to  him;  '4  it  was 
for  the  sake  of  the  dessert  you  wished  to  stay 
with  me."  Philip  jumped  up,  his  face  all  in 
a  glow  of  indignation.  He  had  never  even 
been  accused  of  untruth  before. 

44  You  may  keep  your  fruit,"  he  said,  push- 
ing the  plate  as  far  as  he  could  upon  the 
table;  4t  I  won't  eat  it.  [  wanted  to  stop 
with  you,  and  never  thought  of  your  dessert 
till  you  gave  it  me" — and  his  eyes  flashed 
again.  Miles  was  more  pleased  at  this  dis- 
play of  spirit  than  even  with  his  former  ca- 
resses ;  and,  drawing  him  to  his  knee,  said  he 
did  not  doubt  his  truth,  and  only  meant  to 
joke  him. 

44  Oh,"  returned  Philip,  brightening  up, 
44  if  you  were  only  in  joke,  of  course,  that  is 
different,  and  I  don't  care  a  bit ;  but  you  said 
it  so  like  earnest"—- and  all  his  anger  vanished. 
So  again  he  sat  down,  the  plate  in  his  lap, 
and  began  his  fruit.  How  fair  he  looked, 
with  the  red  firelight  dancing  on  his  long, 
waving  hair,  and  white  neck  and  arms,  which 
shone  like  marble  upon  his  sable  dress,  divid- 
ing the  fruit  with  his  rosy  fingers,  and  every 
minute  looking  up  and  smiling  archly  at 
Miles. 

44  You  have  very  good  fruit,  I  think,  here ; 
we  had  only  apples  and  plums  at  home, 
though  they  were  very  sweet,  too.  I  never 
saw  fruit  like  this  before." 

44  I  should  think  not,"  said  his  uncle,  com* 
placently.  44  You  will  see  a  great  deal  in  my 
house  that  you  never  saw  before." 

44  Shall  I?"  returned  Philip,  with  much 
animation.  44  Oh,  tell  me  what!  "  and,  hav- 
ing finished  his  dainties,  he  came  and  stood 
close  to  his  uncle's  side.  44  Can  you  tell 
stories?"  he  whispered — as  Miles  remained 
silent — looking  inquiringly  up  into  his  face. 

44  Well,"  he  replied,  44 1  suppose  1  could 
if  I  tried." 

44  Then,  please  let  me  sit  on  your  lap,  and 
tell  them  to  me  till  my  bed-time ;  "  and, 
without  further  invitation,  he  seated  himself 
on  his  uncle's  knee,  folded  his  hands,  com- 
posed himself  comfortably  to  listen,  and  then 
said,  44  Begin."  And  old  Miles  began,  awk- 
wardly enough — as  might  be  expected  of  a 


14 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


man  who  had  never  talked  to  children  in  his 
life — and  in  a  very  low  voice,  as  though  he 
were  half  ashamed  of  himself.  But  Philip 
saw  no  defects  or  hesitation ;  and,  when  he 
came  to  stories  of  parrots  and  monkeys, 
clapped  his  little  hands  with  delight,  and 
cried  out,  "  Tell  it  again — tell  it  again !  " 

So  Miles  told  it  again ;  and  went  on  im- 
proving until  Philip  was  fairly  in  ecstacies, 
and  thought  he  had  never  seen  such  a  funny 
man  as  his  uncle.  Miles  Earnscliffe  a  funny 
man !  And  thus  passed  the  evening.  At 
length  the  child's  head  drooped,  and  his  eyes 
grew  heavy  with  fatigue,  and  his  uncle  said 
he  must  go  off  to  bed. 

"  Yes,  directly,"  said  Philip.  Then  he 
lingered  and  looked  rather  shy — "  but  I  want 
to  say  something  first.  When  my  mamma 
was  alive,  I  used  to  say  my  prayers  to  her. 
Oh,  uncle,  let  me  say  them  to  you  this  one 
rnght,  because  I  am  all  alone  here,  and  I 
don't  like  to  say  them  to  Mrs.  Scott/1 

Miles  assented  with  a  husky  voice  ;  and  the 
child  knelt  down,  and,  folding  his  dimpled 
hands  on  his  uncle's  knees,  said  his  evening 
prayers,  concluding  with  "  God  bless  papa 
and  mamma" — poor  little  fellow  ! — as  though 
they  still  needed  the  weak,  imperfect  prayer 
of  their  child. 

And  now  he  is  gone ;  and  Miles  sits  long 
by  the  red  fire-light,  with  new  thoughts  in 
his  heart,  and  a  softer  expression  on  his  hard 
face,  and  his  dead  brother's  open  letter  in  his 
hand. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PHILIP  was  thus  installed  in  his  uncle's 
house ;  and,  in  one  of  those  sudden  revul- 
sions of  the  heart,  to  which  the  hardest  of 
human  beings  are  subject,  Miles  Earnscliffe 
had  soon  conceived  an  almost  passionate 
love  for  the  child.  After  living  all  his  life 
distrustful  and  alone,  a  natural  source  of 
affection  was  at  length  opened  for  his  hitherto 
barren  feelings,  and  they  seemed  more  in- 
tense from  the  very  fact  of  having  been  so 
long  pent  up  in  his  own  bosom.  Philip  was 
soon  paramount  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Scott 
the  boy  seemed  to  look  upon  as  a  natural 
enemy  ;  and,  after  a  six  weeks'  war,  Mrs. 
Scott  w;is  dismissed.  He  had  a  cheerful 
ymiMfr  relation  of  his  old  friend  the.  firmer 
for  his  own  attendant,  birds  and  pets  for  his 
amusements,  a  Shetland  pony  to  ride — in 
MOTi,  a  flood  of  sunshine  seemed  to  have 
broken  upon  the  house;,  which  used  to  be  so 
"  dull  and  dignified." 

Mill's  was  more  happy  in  the  change  than 
lit-  would  acknowledge  to  himself.  To  hear 
Philip's  little  voice.  a>  he  played  about  the 
room  during  breakfast —to  have  him  prattling 
at  his  knees,  in  the  long  winter  evenings — to 
look  in  his  fair  face,  and  fuel,  "  he,  of  my 


own  blood,  and  not  a  stranger,  shall  inherit 
my  wealth" — all  this  gave  him  a  living  interest 
in  his  life,  and  in  his  riches,  which  he  had 
never  felt  before.  As  the  boy  grew  older, 
he  was  formally  announced  by  Miles  to  be  his 
heir ;  and  it  is  needless  to  sav  what  numbers 
of  friends  awaited  young  Philip  in  the  world. 
Although  his  uncle  himself  hated  society, 
his  pride  was  gratified  by  all  the  attentions 
showered  upon  his  heir;  and  he  would 
chuckle  to  himself  as  he  thought  "  how  much 
love  would  Phil's  grand  relations  have  shown 
him,  if  he  had  not  been  adopted  by  his  vulgar 
old  uncle  ?  " 

For  gentle  reader,  the  family  of  Philip's 
mother — with  that  beautiful  constancy  to  a 
rich  relation,  so  frequently  to  be  observed  in 
the  world — although  they  had  cast  off  a 
daughter  of  their  house  for  marrying  a  poor 
man,  were  exceedingly  anxious  to  court  the 
poor  man's  rich  brother.  Miles  had  himself 
abandoned  Herbert  in  his  poverty ;  but  he 
felt  the  greatest  disgust  at  their  meanness, 
and  insulted  his  lordly  relations  on  more  than 
one  occasion  when  he  chanced  to  meet  them 
in  the  world.  After  his  adoption  of  Philip, 
however,  and  as  the  latter  grew  up,  he  began 
to  relent  towards  them,  for  the  child's  sake  ; 
for  he  wished  his  nephew  to  have  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  very  society  he  had  himself 
always  affected  to  despise.  The  first  amiable 
advances  on  the  part  of  the  eccentric  Mr. 
Earnscliffe — very  rich  men  are  only  eccentric 
never  rude — were  met  cordially  ;  his  former 
rebuffs  were  forgotten  with  true  Christian  char- 
ity ;  and  Philip  found  a  score  of  affectionate 
grand-parents,  uncles,  aunts,  and  cousins  all 
ready  to  love  him.  As  Herbert  Earnscliffe 's 
son,  they  would,  probably,  have  considered 
him  a  common-place,  uninteresting  boy  ;  but, 
as  Miles  Earnscliffe's  nephew,  every  one  dis- 
covered that  he  had  inherited  his  father's  wit, 
and  his  mother's  beauty.  It  happened  that 
all  these  praises  were,  as  regarded  Philip, 
true.  He  grew  up  exceedingly  handsome; 
with  more,  perhaps,  of  that  beauty  which 
awakens  interest  from  the  intellect  shining 
through  the  outward  form — than  of  the  mere 
physical  perfection  which  attracts  the  com- 
mon mass  of  people.  And  yet  Philip's  fea- 
tures, of  themselves,  were  all  good  and  finely 
chiselled.  The  (Jrecian  nose,  and  full,  poet 
mouth,  might  have  borne  the  most  critical 
scrutiny  ;  although  it  was  in  his  brow,  and 
deep,  spiritual  eyes,  that  lay  the  rare  charm 
of  his  (ace. 

He  went  to  Harrow,  and  did  not  shine 
there;  some  of  his  masters  pronouncing  him 
merely  idle,  others  a  dunce.  I'.ut  when 
Miles,  in  stern  displeasure,  questioned  the, 
bof  upon  these  evil  reports,  Philip's  only  re- 
ply w  is — "Uncle.  I  have  as  much  ability  as 
any  of  niv  masters,  though  I  cannot  learn  as 
they  tea.-'h.  Take  me  from  school,  and  let 
me  study  at  home,  and  I  will  be  a  greater 
man  than  any  of  them."  Miles  would  do 
nothing  of  the  kind,  so  Philip  remained  at 


PHILIP  EAKNTSCLIFFE. 


15 


Harrow  the  usual  number  of  years,  and  left 
it  with  the  proportionate  amount  of  ignorance 
and  Greek,  which  can*  be  acquired  at  an  Eng- 
lish public  school.  But  his  mind  had  not  lain 
idle  all  this  time.  His  education  had  been — 
not  in  the  wretched  daily  routine  of  immoral 
classics — but  in  his  life.  In  his  school  friend- 
ships, and  dislikes ;  in  all  the  varieties  of 
human  life — although  only  that  of  boys — 
which  he  had  learnt  to  analyse ;  in  his  own 
transition  from  childhood  into  youth;  in  the 
long  summer  walks  among  the  Harrow  hills ; 
in  his  solitary  evening  dreams  under  the  star- 
light, his  poet's  mind  had  gradually  dawned. 
And  at  the  end  of  five  years  he  left  school, 
no  scholar,  but  a  genius. 

"  What  are  you  at,  Phil  ?  "  his  uncle  would 
exclaim  testily,  when  he  was  continually  fill- 
ing endless  sheets  of  writing-paper,  and  ab- 
senting himself  from  all  his  old  amusements ; 
and  Phil  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  say 
"  he  was  writing  a  book ;  "  knowing  well  that 
Miles  was  no  lover  of  authors,  and  would, 
probably,  not  be  pleased  at  the  prospect  of 
having  one  in  his  own  nephew;  so  he  evaded 
the  question,  and  kept  his  papers  out  of  sight, 
but,  in  his  own  study,  returned  with  redoubled 
ardor  to  his  occupation,  made  all  the  sweet- 
er from  having  to  be  pursued  by  stealth. 
As  his  work  grew,  and  he  felt  within  him  the 
wonderful  power  of  creative  genius  strength- 
ening, day  by  day,  his  love  for  his  art  in- 
creased tenfold.  It  was  with  Philip  no  wish 
for  fame,  no  feverish  desire  to  be  heard  of, 
but  the  mere  delight  of  creating,  which  im- 
pelled him  to  write ;  and  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  the  book  proceeded.  Full  of  faults 
it  was,  both  of  diction  and  composition  ;  but 
with  frequent  touches  of  pure  pathos,  vigor- 
ous conception,  and  a  shrewd  and  caustic 
wit,  which  bespoke  the  early  dawnings  of  no 
common  mind.  At  length,  he  finished  it. 
One  summer  midnight,  he  wrote  the  last 
line ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  that 
he  had  succeeded.  Although  no  eye  but  his 
own  had  ever  read  a  word  of  his  writings, 
something  within  him  said  that  his  was  not 
like  the  generality  of  books,  and  that  he  was 
to  be  one  of  the  few  who  rise  apart  from  the 
common  leaven  of  humanity.  He  extinguish- 
ed his  little  lamp,  and,  throwing  open  his 
window,  walked  out  upon  the  balcony. 

The  summer  night,  with  its  thousand  vo- 
luptuous odors — the  soft,  warm  air — the  deep 
sky  above — and  the  stars,  those  mysterious 
types  of  immortality,  which  seern,  in  every 
deep  emotion,  to  have  kindly  sympathy  with 
the  heart  of  man — all  harmonised  with  his 
own  happy  feelings.  Nature  seemed  bid- 
ding him  welcome  among  the  poet  band,  who 
alone  interpret  her  rightly,  and  are  her 
apostles  to  the  weary  children  of  the  world. 
He  remained  long,  building  a  hundred  bright 
dreams  for  the  futuro — those  first  visions  of 
fame  than  which  the  hopes  of  love  are  not 
sweeter — and  when  he  at  length  retired  to 


rest,  he  slept  not ;  for  now  other  and  more 
practical  thoughts  arose  upon  his  mind. 

How  should  his  first  work  appear  before 
the  world  ? — should  he  publish  anonymously, 
and  unknown  to  his  uncle,  trusting  merely 
to  his  own  merit  for  success  ?  At  first,  he 
liked  the  idea,  but  then  his  heart  revolted 
against  even  a  temporary  concealment  from 
Miles ;  he  tho'ught  of  the  old  man's  disap- 
pointment at  his  Harrow  failures,  and  felt  he 
should  confide  his  secret  to  him,  and  let  him 
participate  with  him  in  his  hopes  and  triumph. 
Then,  again,  he  thought  of  his  uncle's  sar- 
castic remarks  about  authors  of  fiction — 
"trashy  rubbish."  as  he  called  novels;  and 
so  the  hours  passed,  in  a  conflict  of  opposing 
plans,  until  daybreak,  when  he  rose  to  read 
and  re-touch  portions  of  his  work.  When 
he  came  down  to  breakfast,  next  morning, 
his  heavy  eyes  bore  ample  testimony  to  the 
way  in  which  he  had  passed  the  night.  He 
had  decided  to  broach  the  subject  at  once  : 
and  his  manner  was  constrained,  as  he  seat- 
ed himself  and  began  his  breakfast,  without 
knowing  what  he  was  about. 

Miles  eyed  him  sharply;  he  had  watched 
Philip  much  of  late.  His  abstraction,  his 
late  hours,  his  pale  cheek,  had  not  escaped 
his  notice ;  and  a  suspicion  had  arisen,  the 
bare  thought  of  which  filled  him  with  horror 
— the  boy  must  have  fallen  in  love.  Ot 
course,  he  looked  forward,  some  day,  to  his 
marrying  a  woman  with  rank  or  money ;  but 
of  love,  or  youthful  romance,  he  had  almost 
a  greater  horror  than  of  poverty,  and  he  was 
resolved  to  cure  all  such  nonsense  in  its  be- 
ginning. He  had  never  known  a  similar 
weakness  himself,  and  classed  it  with  mea- 
sles, and  other  childish  disorders,  that  must 
be  gone  through.  He  only  wished  his 
nephew  had  had  the  good  grace  to  keep  clear 
of  the  contagion. 

"What  ails  you,  Phil? — with  your  ghost- 
ly white  face — helping  yourself  three  times 
to  sugar,  and  crumbling  your  bread  ail  over 
the  table-cloth — do  you  hear  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Philip,  looking  very 
guilty;  "  I— the  fact  is— I—" 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  all  coming!"  groaned 
Miles,  internally ;  then  he  added  aloud,  with 
sarcastic  politeness — "  Pray  take  your  time, 
nephew ;  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"  I  fear  you  will  not  be  pleased,  uncle.  I 
should  have  told  you  sooner,  but " 

*•  But  what,  sir?  "  interrupted  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe,  angrily.  "I  know  the  meaning  of 
your  hesitation,  and  your  blushes,  and  your 
modesty.  Tell  me  the  woman's  name,  you 
love-sick  young  idiot,  at  once,  and  have  done 
with  it." 

'*  The  woman's  name  !  "  said  Philip,  look- 
ing up  in  amazement,  and  with  his  face  ex- 
ceedingly red.  "  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
any  woman  in  the  world.  I  have  written  a 
book,  sir,"  bringing  out  the  last  words  with 
an  effort. 


16 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


Miles  heaved  a  colossal  sigh  of  relief;  he 
drank  an  entire  cup  of  tea — buttered  some 
toast — looked  Philip  full  in  the  face — and 
then  went  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter.  "  So 
you  have  written  a  book  ?  oh  !  " 

"Yes,  sir.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so 
amused."  Philip  had  already  too  much  of 
the  author  in  him,  not  to  feel  offended  at  the 
way  his  important  announcement  was  re- 
ceived. 

"  A  book — ho  !  ho  ! — don't  be  angry ;  and 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Publish  it,"  he  returned,  shortly, 

**  Well,  I  suppose,  at  your  age,  you  must 
do  something  ridiculous  ;  and  it  is  so  infinite- 
ly better  than  the  other  thing,  that  I  feel  ac- 
tually relieved.  But  a  book — well — what  is 
it  all  about?  " 

4 '  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  some  of 
it?"  replied  Philip — he  could  not  long  be 
angry  with  his  uncle — "  I  should  be  glad  to 
read  you  some  of  my  scenes." 

"Is  it  in  verse?  No.  Well,  that  is  a 
comfort.  A  novel,  I  suppose?  I  thought 
so.  I  am  an  excellent  judge  of  that  valua- 
ble class  of  works,  and  shall  be  happy  to 
give  you  my  criticism.  We  will  publish  it, 
by  all  means  (without  our  name,  if  you 
please)  ;  and  I  daresay  our  first  success  will 
be  such,  as  to  make  us  leave  book-writing 
alone  for  the  future." 

And  in  this  cheerful  strain  Miles  finished  his 
breakfast.  He  loved  Philip  deeply,  but  it 
was  not  in  his  power  to  refrain  from  saying 
spiteful  things,  even  to  him ;  and  looking 
upon  him  with  all  his  good  looks  and  noble 
qualities,  as  no  genius — there  was  really,  to 
him,  something  quite  ludicrous  in  this  new 
idea  of  authorship. 

"  I  shall  be  in  the  library  at  eleven,  punc- 
tually, for  the  reading,  Phil,"  he  said,  as 
they  parted.  «*  Bring  the  shortest  chap- 
ters " 

Philip  went  sadly  to  his  own  room.  He 
was  very  young ;  and  his  uncle's  sarcastic 
manner  had  fallen  like  a  pall  upon  all  his 
bright  hopes. 

"  Yes,"  he  thought,  "  I  daresay  he  is 
right.  I  have  no  real  genius  ;  and  the  world 
will  think  so,  too."  He  took  his  manuscript 
in  his  hand,  and  turned  the  leaves  ovef  with 
a  feeling  of  disgust.  **  And  all  this,  that 
only  last  night  I  thought  was  to  live  for  ever, 
is,  perhaps,  worthless  nonsense."  And  he 
4>cgan,  bitterly,  to  read  a  passage  aloud. 
But,  even  as  he  did  so,  the  feeling  under 
which  that  very  passage  was  written — a  des- 
cription of  genius  slowly  conquering  difficul- 
ties, and  rising  above  this  world  to  another 
— returned  to  him,  and  his  own  words  be- 
came his  comforters.  "  I  have  genius  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  aloud,  "  I  know — I  feel  it.  My 
uncle  has  not  heard  any  of  my  writings  yet  ; 
and,  even  when  he  has,  and  if  he  judges  ill 
of  it,  it  shall  not  alter  me.  I  must  succeed.1" 
He  laid  down  the  manuscript;  and  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  waited  impatiently  for 


the  appointed  hour,  when  he  descended — his 
work  under  his  arm — to  the  library.  His 
uncle  was  already  there. 

"Heaven  help  me!"  he  exclaimed,  half 
to  himself,  but,  of  course,  meaning  Philip  to 
hear;  "  I  expected  one,  or,  at  most,  two, 
quires  of  foolscap,  and,  behold !  as  much 
paper  as  goes  to  a  family  Bible."  Then 
he  added,  aloud — "  Well,  how  much  are  we 
to  get  through  at  one  sitting?  " 

"  As  muc'h,  or  as  little,  as  you  like,"  re- 
plied Philip,  laughing;  "  I  will  read  you  a 
scene  here  and  there ;  and  when  you  are 
tired  you  can  tell  me." 

"  Don't  fear.  I  shall  not  forget  that,"  was 
the  answer,  as  Philip  seated  himself  at  the 
table. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  nervous, 
choking  sensation  in  the  throat,  when  one 
was  about  to  read  one's  first  composition  to  a 
relation  ?  No  after  ordeal  among  editors 
and  publishers  can  ever  come  up  to  it.  He 
arranged  his  papers — turned,  and  re-turned 
them,  to  find  an  effective  part — and  then 
glanced  at  Miles.  He  was  comfortably  seat- 
ed in  his  easy  chair,  by  the  open  window — 
his  hands  folded  over  his  ample  waistcoat, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ceiling,  with  an 
expression  of  mock  resignation,  very  trying 
to  a  young  author.  His  feet  were  out- 
stretched in  an  attitude  of  excessive  ease ; 
and  overhis  head  he  had  thrown  a  large  silk 
handkerchief — his  usual  prelude  to  falling 
asleep. 

"  Are  you  ready,  uncle?  " 

"  Quite,  Philip— the  day  is  hot — and  if  I 
should  go  to  sleep,  you  must  wake  me,  and 
not  be  offended  !  " 

And,  at  length,  after  clearing  his  throat 
twice,  the  boy  began.  Miles  expected  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense  about  love  and  senti- 
ment ;  but  Philip  knew  his  taste  too  well  to 
choose  such  scenes,  even  had  there  been 
much  about  love  in  his  work,  which  there 
was  not.  He  selected  a  portion  of  the  book 
where  the  workings  of  an  erring,  but  origi- 
nally noble  nature,  were  developed ;  and 
there  was  a  vigor  and  truthfulness  in  the  way 
this  character  was  brought  out,  of  which 
Miles,  who  had  seen  so  much  of  life,  was 
fully  able  to  judge ;  for,  although  lie  knew 
nothing  of  books,  he  was  well  versed  in  the 
darker  parts  of  human  nature.  The  des- 
cription was  one  of  a  youth,  who,  by  slow 
and  gradual  stages,  becomes  a  gambler;  for 
years  plays,  ns  men  term  it,  with  honor;  rind, 
:it  length,  in  a  moment  of  uncontrollable 
temptation,  makes  another  downward  transi- 
tion, and  is  a  felon.  Then  he  analyse. 1,  at 
some  length,  the  passion  which  had  led  the 
youth  on  into  crime,  and  paiuteu  minutely  its 
terrible  pleasures  and  irresistible  fascina- 
tions. A  passage  or  two  may  lie  quoted, 
as  giving  some  idea  of  the  general  style. 

"The  love  of  gambling."  he  read,  "is 
more  intense  than  was  ever  the  love  for  wo- 
man ;  more  intoxicating,  more  fervid,  and 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


17 


actually,  In  its  deeds  of  self-abnegation,  more 
heroic.  With  the  mere  vile  end  of  gold  for 
the  reward,  what  blind  and  boundless  sac- 
rifice, what  changeless  courage,  what  unfail- 
ing ardor  is  evinced  in  the  pursuit !  The 
true  gambler  conquers  or  falls,  with  the  cold- 
ness of  a  stoic ;  passing,  in  an  hour,  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest  grades  of  society, 
without  a  change  of  features.  Still,  hang- 
ing over  the  green  cloth,  where  the  demon 
of  play  enchains  him,  he  experiences  in  one 
night  every  vicissitude  of  our  life.  First  king, 
then  slave,  he  leaps  over,  in  one  bound,  the 
enormous  space  that  separates  these  two 
men  in  the  scale  of  human  existence.  What 
will  he  be  when  he  leaves  this  fevered  den,  a 
prince  or  a  beggared  outcast  ?  weighed  down 
with  countless  gold,  or  despoiled  of  the  last 
poor  gem  which  glitters  on  his  hand  ?  He 
knows  not — he  scarcely  cares.  For,  after 
all,  it  is  not  the  lust  of  gold  which  chains 
him  to  his  consuming  life.  It  is  the  loath- 
ing of  repose,  and  love  of  the  fierce  excite- 
ment caused  by  these  eternal  gains  and  loss- 
es. Gold  becomes  his  life — his  mistress — 
his  one  desire — his  avenging  fiend — his  god  ; 
and  yet  it  is  not  gold  for  its  own  sake  that 
Le  covets.  This  ceaseless  combat  for  a 
shadow,  no  sooner  caught  than  it  again  eludes 
his  grasp,  and  which  he  loses  almost  with 
pleasure,  that  he  may  re-commence  the 
struggle,  is  to  him,  at  length,  as  the  very 
breath  of  his  nostrils.  In  time  he  has  no 
other  life  but  this  life;  every  softer  feeling 
of  his  nature  is  sacrificed  to  the  infernal  fe- 
ver that  consumes  him.  Love,  self-esteem, 
friendship — even  the  blandishments -of  mere 
sensual  pleasure — what  are  they  to  him, 
whose  delight  it  is  to  make  his  own  heart 
throb  with  agony,  his  blood  boil,  his  brain 
reel  madly  ;  who  throws  his  life,  his  fortune, 
his  honor  away  at  one  throw  of  the  dice,  or 
risks  them,  piece  by  piece,  in  a  slower  and 
more  exquisite  torture  P  What  are  the  excite- 
ments of  our  life  to  him  ?  puerile  and  child- 
ish. 

"  The  ocean  could  as  soon  sink  into  eter- 
nal calm,  the  eagle  b.e  happy  without  wings, 
as  he  return  to  the  peaceful  monotony  of 
common  existence.  Oh  !  what  patriots  would 
have  lived  tor  their  country  alone — what 
lovers  have  sacrificed  their  life  and  honor  for 
their  mistress,  if  the  same  fire  had  ever  burnt 
in  their  breasts  which  lights  up  the  hollow 
eye  of  the  gambler  !  " 

Philip  went  on  reading  several  pages ;  at 
length  he  stopped,  and  stole  a  glance  at  his 
uncle.  He  was  not  asleep ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  intently  upon  the  boy's  face,  his  head 
bent  forward  in  a  listening  attitude,  and  the 
handkerchief  lying  unheeded  upon  the  floor. 

"  Are  you  tired,  uncle  ?  " 

-No." 

"  Shall  I  go  on?" 

"  No.  Philip,  answer  me  one  thing,  and 
truly;  how  did  you  leanfall  you  have  just 
read  to  me  ?  where  did  you  get  your  experi- 
2 


ence  of  a  gambler's  life  and  feelings?  From 
what  you  have  read — or — but,  no,  it  is  im- 
possible that  you  could  have  seen  such  things 
at  your  age.1' 

"Uncle,"  returned  Philip,  quietly,  "I 
cannot  tell  you  how  I  learn  anything  that  I 
write ;  as  you  say,  it  cannot  be  from  my  own 
experience,  and  I  have  read  so  few  novels 
that  I  do  not  think  I  have  borrowed  much 
from  them.  I  suppose,  in  this  case,  it  must 
partly  be  from  what  1  have  read  and  heard, 
but  much  more  from  imagining  what  must  be 
the  state  of  a  man's  mind  under  one  power- 
ful and  all-engrossing  passion.  Further  than 
this,  I  cannot  explain  how  or  why  I  have 
written." 

Miles  looked  into  the  frank  young  face, 
and  believed  him.  He  was  shrewd,  and  not 
without  ability,  of  a  certain  kind,  himself; 
and,  though  Philip's  was  of  a  higher  and  very 
different  order,  he  was  able  to  recognize  th« 
youth's  dawning  talent  at  once.  But  he  paid 
him  few  compliments. 

"I  do  not  deny,  Philip,  that  I  am  alto- 
gether surprised  at  what  I  have  heard  of 
your  writing.  You  shall  begin  this  even- 
ing, and  read  the  whole  work  to  me  through. 
Afterwards,  I  suppose  you  will  publish  it. 
Well,  I  never  thought  you  would  end  in  be- 
ing an  author." 

The  readings  were  long,  often  extending 
until  after  midnight — for  old  Miles  grew  more 
interested  in  the  plot  than  he  acknowledged 
— and,  when  it  was  finished,  he  was  as  anx- 
ious as  Philip  about  the  publication  ;  adding, 
at  last — "  anal,  I  believe,  after  all,  it  may  be 
as  well  to  publish  it  under  your  own  name.1' 

In  a  few  weeks  the  book  was  in  the  press. 

Philip  had  small  difficulty  to  contend  with 
at  the  commencement  of  his  literary  career. 
Had  he  been  an  ordinary  youth  of  eighteen, 
struggling  on  without  friends  or  fortune,  his 
talents  would  have  undoubtedly  remained  the 
same,  but  his  success  might  have  been  differ- 
ent— I  mean  the  success  of  his  first  work, 
not  his  ultimate  fame  as  an  author — and 
therein  lies  a  great  distinction.  The  rugged 
path  to  be  toiled  up  in  early  youth — the  neg- 
lect at  first — the  harsh  criticism — the  slow- 
ly-dawning fame,  are  the  very  circumstances 
which  have  braced  up  and  fostered  many  a 
youthful  genius  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  scarcely  a  more  perilous  test  of  real 
worth,  than  for  a  first  work  to  be  brought 
out  under  all  the  accidental  advantages  of  a 
name  and  fortune,  excellent  publishers,  and 
friendly  critics.  But  the  result  at  the  time 
is  unquestionably  far  pleasanter. 

At  eighteen,  Philip  found  himself  a  suc- 
cessful author — a  lion  in  London  society ; 
with  as  great  a  share  of  adulation,  and  as 
many  pretty  women  ready  to  be  in  love  with 
him/ as  might  have  turned  many  an  older 
head.  He  was  naturally  no  coxcomb,  and 
became  as  little  one  as  was  perhaps  possible  ; 
but  no  handsome  young  author,  courted  as 
he  was,  could  remain  long  free  from  the  per- 


18 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


nicious  effects  of  such  a  life ;  one  of  the 
greatest  evils  of  which  was,  that  his  mind, 
instead  of  the  quiet  and  repose  necessary  af- 
ter the  feverish  haste  in  which  his  first  book 
was  written,  was  kept  in  a  constant  whirl  of 
excitement,  when  it  should  have  been  ac- 
quiring new  and  healthy  vigor  for  its  next 
labors.  At  the  end  of  another  year,  how- 
ever, he  again  published.  The  success  of 
the  work  was  great — perhaps,  greater  than 
had  been  the  former  one — but  it  was  a  false 
success  this  time — that  of  society.  In  the 
world  the  book  was  indiscriminately  praised, 
its  faults,  which  were  many,  were  unnoticed, 
and  the  really  true  and  beautiful  parts  over- 
looked. Only  a  few  grave  critics  were  more 
sparing  in  their  praises  than  before ;  and 
hinted  that  if  the  third  work  of  the  young 
author  were  again  as  intrinsically  poorer,  as 
was  this  one,  compared  to  the  first,  his  lit- 
erary career  would  be  over.  Philip  felt  the 
truth  of  these  remarks  deeply,  and  resolved 
to  profit  by  them,  and  withdrew  himself 
awhile  from  the  noisy  world  of  London,  ere 
he  again  attempted  to  compose. 

Miles  gladly  seconded  his  intention ;  for 
all  Philip's  success  and  engagements  had  nat- 
urally deprived  his  uncle  of  much  of  his  so- 
ciety, and  they  were  both  looking  forward, 
with  pleasure,  to  spending  some  quiet  months 
at  a  place  of  Mr.  Earnscliffe's,  far  away  in 
the  north  of  England,  when  a  new  train  of 
events  arose,  which  altered  their  plans,  and 
colored  the  whole  of  Philip's  after  life. 

When  he  again  wrote,  it  was  to  be  under 
very  different  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  V. 

PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFK  was  already  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  best  partis  in  London. 
Joined  to  all  his  own  attractions,  he  was  the 
acknowledged  heir  of  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  England  ;  and  many  a  wily  mother  and  in- 
nocent daughter  had  combined  their  united 
snares  around  him.  But  Philip,  although  he 
had  had  a  do/en  admirations,  had  never  fallen 
in  love.  Perhaps  he  had  as  yet  had  no  time  to 
do  so  ;  or,  more  likely,  he  had  been  thinking 
too  much  of  himself  to  bestow  undivided  at- 
tention upon  any  other  object.  However 
this  might  lie,  lie  only  laughed,  when  his 
nude  used  to  ask  him,  at  breakfast,  "  What 
silly  face  he  had  become  enamoured  of  the 
evening  In-fore  ?  M — and  always  said  he  .should 
have  no  time  to  think  of  marrying,  for  the 
next  ten  ireaiV,  at  lea-t.  He  little  knew  how 
near  his  file  w.-is  upon  him. 

One  of  the  houses  at  which  lie  wa^  the 
most  intimate  was  that  of  Lord  St.  Leger, 
his  maternal  uncle.  The  noble  lord  was  him- 
H-lf  as  disagreeable  a  person  ;is  you  will  of- 
ten meet  with,  and  possessed  .scarcely  an 


idea  beyond  his  own  dignity  and  the  dice- 
box,  while  of  principle  he  was  most  singular- 
ly and  entirely  void.  His  wife  was  not  a 
whit  inferior  to  himself  in  coldness  of  heart 
— or,  rather,  in  the  complete  absence  of  what 
common  people  term  natural  affection.  She 
had,  however,  a  fair,  kindly  face — a  plausi- 
ble manner — a  soft  voice,  and  was  generally 
spoken  of  as  a  very  charming  woman  indeed. 
Few  claims  to  popularity  go  deeper. 

They  had  only  one  child,  a  daughter ;  and 
Lady  Clare  St.  Leger  inherited  many  of  the 
qualities  of  both  her  parents — although  these 
were,  of  course,  somewhat  glossed  over  by 
her  youth  and  personal  attractions.  She 
was  several  years  older  than  Philip,  and  had 
already  attained  the  age  of  five-arid-twenty 
— an  age  at  which  most  girls,  in  her  position, 
would  have  been  some  years  married.  But, 
although  she  had  had  several  offers,  and  one 
lover,  none  of  her  suitors  had  been  consider- 
ed eligible,  either  by  herself  or  her  parents. 
Time  wore  on,  however,  and  every  year 
Lord  St.  Leger  became  more  anxious  for  his 
daughter  to  marry  a  wealthy  man.  Beneath 
his  cold,  white,  unmeaning  face,  lurked  the 
fire  of  many  an  evil  passion;  and  the 
gambling-table  had  long  been  making  fearful 
inroads  upon  a  fortune  already  crippled  with 
youthful  extravagance. 

Lady  St.  Leger  was  equally  desirous  that 
Clara  should  make  a  distinguished  marriage ; 
but  she  had  always  looked  less  to  mere  money 
than  to  high  birth  and  position,  until  one  day, 
when  her  husband  abruptly  acquainted  her 
with  the  darkening  state  of  his  own  affairs ; 
adding,  coarsely,  "and  it  would  he  well, 
madam,  for  you  to  make  a  last  effort  to  mar- 
ry your  daughter,  or  I  reckon  she  will  have 
little  chance  soon  of  finding  a  husband  at  all. 
Unless  something  very  unforeseen  occurs, 
you  may  look  forward,  in  the  course  of  the 
present  year,  to  being  the  wife  of  a  beggar." 
Lady  St.  Leger  pondered  deeply  over  this 
fearful  intelligence — the  most  fearful  that  can 
be  conceived  to  a  heartless  woman  of  the 
world.  The  prospect  of  poverty  was,  to  her, 
the  prospect  of  disgrace,  loss  of  position, 
inlluence  in  societv — all  that  constituted  her 
life.  Without  domestic  affections,  resources 
in  herself,  or  religion,  she  looked  upon  a 
beggared  future  as  Jar  worse  than  death  it- 
self; and,  with  a  desperate  determination, 
she  resolved  to  marry  Clara  at  once.  She 
felt  that  upon  that  alone  hung  their  last 
chance,  lint  to  whom;1  She  turned  over 
in  her  mind  all  the  men  who  had  ever  shown 
her  daughter  any  attention,  and  even  those 
who  had  not  ;  ami  as,  one  by  one,  the  most 
eligible  rose  before  hi  r,  she  felt  that  Clara, 
at  live-and-twenty.  h.nl  small  prosp. 
sueceeiling  where  she  had  failed  at  eighteen: 
she  was  getting  somewhat  thin,  of  late,  and 
had  not  too  many  partners  at  halls  during  the 
present  season.  Suddenly  a  new  thought 
llasheil  across  Lady  St.  'Leger;  she  half 
smiled,  and  deliberated  long — but  the  delib- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


19 


eration  seemed,  at  last,  favorable,  and  her 
thin  lips  parted  disdainfully,  as  she  muttered 
aloud,  "Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be  so ;  I 
must  marry  my  daughter  to  young  Earns- 
eliffe." 

Later  in  the  day  she  sought  for  Clara,  and 
found  her  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
was  neither  working  nor  reading,  but  sitting 
in  the  twilight,  Vith  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
fire,  and  her  hands  lying  listlessly  in  her  lap. 
She  was  paler  even  than  usual,  and  her  long 
light  hair,  thrown  back  from  her  face,  re- 
vealed lines  which  had  already  lost  the 
rounded  contour  of  early  youth.  Lady  St. 
Leger  looked  at  her  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then,  approaching  noiselessly,  laid  her  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"Clara!" 

**  Yes,  mother/' 

She  never  turned  her  head. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  child,  sitting 
alone  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Harry,  mother." 

"Of  Harry!"  returned  the  other,  with 
cold  contempt.  "  Well,  I  should  not  have 
expected  that  my  daughter  would  think  of 
Harry  Douglas  again,  after  the  lapse  of 
eight  years.  A  poor  penniless  young  sailor, 
who  presumed  to  talk  to  you  of  marriage." 

"  Aye,  is  it  not  ridiculous  ?  "  she  replied, 
with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  For  I  refused  him — 
at  your  bidding,  certainly,  but  also  through 
my  own  pride.  And  for  eight  years — you 
remember  rightly,  mother —  1  have  planned, 
andx  plotted,  and  acted,  in  the  hope  of  be- 
coming the  wife  of  a  dozen  other  rnen,  and 
have  not  succeeded.  And  now — a  worn  and 
wearied  woman — I  can  yet  think  of  him  and 
of  my  girlhood,  and  shed  tears  for  both,  as 
I  have  done  to-day.  But  I  do  not  feel  that 
I  shall  shed  many  more."  She  clasped  her 
hands  upon  her  knees,  bowed  her  head  upon 
them,  and  was  silent. 

"  Clara,"  resumed  her  mother,  after  a 
pause,  "  listen  to  me.  You  have  been  a 
dutiful  daughter,  hitherto  " — she  moved  im- 
patiently— '*  and  have  never  opposed  my 
wishes.  Now,  the  very  existence  of  your 
father  and  myself  may  depend  upon  you. 
Our  affairs,  it  matters  not  how  or  why,  are 
in  the  most  desperate  condition,  and  to  your 
marriage  alone  can  we  look  for  help.  If 
you  were  to  marry  a  man  of  property,  we 
might  yet " 

"  Well ! "  said  Clara,  suddenly  looking  up, 
"I  understand  you.  Who  is  it  to  be  ?  what 
happy  man  am  I  this  time  to  try  to  win  for 
my  husband  ?  " 

Her  mother  even  was  rather  taken  aback 
at  her  hard,  cold  manner,  but  she  soon  re- 
covered her  composure ;  and  turning  her 
face  a  little  aside,  answered  quietly,  "  Your 
cousin  Philip." 

"  Philip  Earnscliffe  ?  "— "  Yes." 

"  Mother,  are  you  dreaming?  Why  should 
I  marry  that  boy  ?  Surely  you  do  not  care 


for  his  handsome  face  or  his  genius?"  she 
added,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Clara,  Philip's  uncle  is  the  wealthiest 
commoner  in  England.  His  nephew  is,  cer- 
tainly, only  his  presumptive  heir;  still,  every 
chance  is  in  his  favor.  Old  Earnscliffe 
would  probably  make  handsome  settlements  ; 
and,  at  all  events,  it  is  the  best  parti  you 
have  any  chance  of  making,  and  he  will  be 
easily  won." 

"  He  is  not  likely,  with  his  poet's  fancies, 
to  fall  in  love  with  me." 

"At  twenty,  a  vain  youth  will  fall  in  love 
with  any  woman  who  shows  a  preference  for 
him.  Leave  everything  to  me,  my  darling  ; 
only  act  as  I  wish  you,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
you  will  be  Miles  Earnscliffe's  niece." 

"  And  his  wife.  Well,  as  you  will — his 
or  another's ;  it  is  all  the  same.  Only  one 
thing,  mother — get  it  over  as  quickly  as  you 
can,  and  let  me  have  as  little  to  do  with  it 
as  possible.  And  once  more  she  sunk  into 
her  old  listless  attitude.  Her  mother  pressed 
a  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and  then,  quite 
delighted  at  Clara's  acquiescence,  fluttered 
gaily  out  of  the  room. 

Thus  was  Philip's  marriage  projected. 

Lady  St.  Leger  was  naturally  a  clever 
woman.  Long  experience  in  the  world  had 
given  her  an  extensive  knowledge  of  the  foi- 
bles of  human  nature,  and  she  had  an  inborn 
talent  for  scheming  and  maneuvering.  It 
would  not  be  interesting  to  the  reader  to 
follow  her  minutely  in  the  way  she  plotted 
for  Philip.  The  crowning  scene  of  her  en- 
deavors it  will  be  enough  to  relate. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  interview 
with  her  daughter,  Philip  was  to  dine  with 
them  alone.  He  frequently  did  so,  partly 
on  the  score  of  relationship,  partly  because 
he  rather  liked  his  cousin's  society.  In  spite 
of  her  pale  face  and  moodiness,  there  was 
something  about  her  which  interested  him, 
although  she  was  certainly  the  last  woman 
in  the  world  with  whom  he  could  have  fallen 
in  love.  In  her  calm,  sensible  conversation 
he  found  a  pleasant  contrast  to  the  blooming, 
exuberantly  happy  and  excessively  amiable 
young  ladies  he  generally  met  with  in  the 
world.  Clara  rather  liked  him,  too,  in  her 
own  cold  way;  and  looking  upon  her  cous- 
in as  one  she  Avould,  at  least,  never  be  called 
upon  to  win,  her  manner  with  him  had  al- 
ways been  friendly  and  natural. 

Philip  found  Lady  St  Leger  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  received  him  affection- 
ately, and  made  many  inquiries  for  his  un- 
cle ;  but,  after  these  first  customary  greet- 
ings were  over,  he  perceived  that  she  was 
silent  and  abstracted.  Her  face  was  avert- 
ed from  him,  and  occasionally  she  sighed,  as 
if  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

"  You  are  not  well,  I  fear,"  he  said,  kind- 
ly; "or  something  has  occurred  to  depress 
you." 

She   raised  a  little  mass  of  deep  lace  to 


20 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


her  eves — that  action  being  considered  a 
symbol  of  feminine  agitation — and  was  si- 
lent. Philip  became  interested,  and  pressed 
her  for  a  reply. 

"Ah,  Philip!"  she  cried,  seizing  his 
hand — her  own  was  still  white  and  soft,  as  a 
girl's ;  "  none  but  a  mother  can  know  how  I 
suffer.  I  feel  that  it  is  imprudent,  but  I 
cannot  conceal  it,  even  from  you ;  the  sad 
truth  has  broken  upon  me  so  suddenly. 
After  watching  the  infancy  of  an  only  child, 
seeing  her  grow  up  to'  womanhood,  and 
never  once  in  her  life  having  breathed  a  re- 
proving word  to  her;  now,  in  the  brightness 
of  her  youth,  to  know  that  she  is  pining,  al- 
tering day  by  day.  Oh,  Philip !  my  heart 
will  break  under  it ! "  and  the  lace  was  again 
in  requisition. 

"  Is  Clara — is  my  cousin  ill  ?  "  he  inquired, 
anxiously. 

"  Yes,  she  is  ill,  and  with  a  worse  malady 
than  any  bodily  ailment.  Philip,  for  some 
months  I  have  perceived  that  she  was  rest- 
less and  unsettled ;  she  has  cared  less  for  so- 
ciety, her  gay  cheerfulness  has  decreased  " 
(Philip  never  remembered  her  being  very 
cheerful) — "her  cheeks  have  grown  pale; 
and  yet,  when  I  have  questioned  her  upon 
her  health,  she  has  always  replied,  '  she  was 
well — quite  well — quite  happv.'  But  a  moth- 
er is  not  so  easily  deceived.  "'I  have  watched 
more  closely  every  indication  of  her  feelings, 
and,  at  length,  only  two  days  ago,  an  acci- 
dent discovered  to  me  my  poor  darling's  se- 
cret. Clara  oh,  how  can  I  tell  you  !  you 
of  all  others!"  (her  voice  sank  until  it  was 
scarcely  audible)  "  my  child  is  the  victim  of 
a  deep — and  too  much,  I  fear,  unreturned — 
attachment." 

"  Good  heavens  !  how  little  I  should  have 
supposed  it  possible.  Believe  me,  dear  Lady 
St.  Ledger,  I  fully  sympathise  with  you  in 
your  anxiety  ;  but  what  man  can  be  insensible 
to  the  preference  of  so  gentle  a  being  as 
Clara?" 

Philip  had  not  the  slightest  idea  which  way 
his  afflicted  relative  was  drifting.  lie  only 
felt  real  concern  at  Lady  St.  Leger's  com- 
munication, not.  unmixed  with  astonishment 
that  she  had  selected  him  for  a  confidant  on 
such  a  very  delicate  subject  as  her  daughter's 
unrequited  love;  while  the  lady's  inward  re- 
flection was,  "  Stupid  creature!  I  shall  have 
to  tell  him  in  so  many  words." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  more  ;  perhaps  I  have 
already  said  too  much.  I  believe  it  would  kill 
my  poor  child  if  she  thought  I  had  revealed 
••ret — and  to  you  ;  for,  once,  when  I 
remarked  upon  her  altered  looks,  ami  -aiil  1 
must  ask  you  to  cheer  her  with  SOUK-  of  your 
right  poetic  thoughts,  she  exclaimed,  '  Not 
him,  mother! — not  one  word  to  my  cousin,  or 
I  shall  die!"  :i?i. I  her  verv  lips  turned  a^-hv 
pale.  Oh.  Philip!  it  was  then  that  I  first 

MISpeete.l     the     rruel   t  Ml  t  ll .         I'.llt     llllsll  !     here 

0h«  comes  !  " — and  at  that  moment  the  door 
fclowly  opened,  and  Clara  entered.     She  was 


dressed  in  white,  with  only  a  bouquet  of  nat- 
ural moss-roses  in  her  bosom,  and  looked 
younger  and  fresher  than  usual — with  her 
long,  pale  hair  falling  in  a  cloud  upon  her 
transparently  fair  neck,  and  a  somewhat 
heightened  color  in  her  face.  When  she  saw 
her  mother  and  Philip  alone  together,  the  col- 
or deepened  to  a  crimson  blush,  and  she 
averted  her  head  as  they  shook  hands. 

The  last  words  of  Lady  St.  Leger  had 
caused  an  extremely  painful  sensation  to 
Philip ;  and  Clara's  evident  embarrassment 
at  seeing  him  only  confirmed  his  half-formed 
fear,  that  he  was  the  object  of  her  attachment. 
Although  she  was  not  a  girl  he  could  love, 
she  was  gentle,  and  certainly  pretty  ;  and  he 
had  always  felt  a  kind  of  pity  for  her  com- 
panionless  life.  Nothing  could  have  given 
him  more  sincere  pain  than  the  idea  which 
had  been  forced  upon  his  mind ;  and  he  al- 
lowed Lady  St.  Leger  to  talk  on  without 
reply,  while  he  became  as  silent  and  em- 
barrassed as  his  cousin.  Lord  St.  Leger, 
however,  soon  entered,  and  dinner  was  an- 
nounced, Lady  St.  Leger  whispering  to  him 
as  he  handed  her  to  the  dining-room,  "  Not 
a  word — not  a  look — as  you  value  my  poor 
darling's  happiness." 

The  meal  passed  off  slowly.  Lord  St. 
Leger  was  out  of  temper,  as  usual,  and 
spoke  little.  Clara  was  perfectly  silent; 
and  although  Lady  St.  Leger  and  Philip  ex- 
erted themselves  to  talk,  their  conversation 
was  evidently  constrained.  Soon  after  tho 
ladies  had  left  the  table,  his  uncle  be<*ged 
Philip  to  excuse  him,  saying  he  had  an  en- 
gagement which  obliged  his  attendance ;  so 
Earnscliffe  was  compelled  to  join  his  aunt 
and  cousin  in  the  drawing-room.  But.  he 
had  a  gloomy  feeling — a  sort  of  presenti- 
ment of  evil — upon  his  spirits,  and  he  would 
much  sooner  have  left  the  house.  He  found 
Clara  alone.  She  was  seated  by  a  small 
table,  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  appar- 
ently intent  upon  the  book  she  was  reading. 
As  he  approached,  his  heart  fluttered  slight- 
ly at  seeing  it  was  one  of  his  own  works. 
He  was  too  young  to  be  insensible  to  the  at- 
tachment of  any  woman;  and  his  cousin  had 
never  appeared  to  him  so  interesting  before. 

•*  I  wish  you  had  a  better  book  to  study, 
Clara,"  he  said  with  rather  a  forced  smile. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him — that  fixed, 
steady  look  which,  had  he  lived  longer,  ho 
night  have  known  no  woman  could  bestow 
upon  the  man  she  loved — ami  again  a  deep, 
painful  blush  overspread  her  face,  coloring 
ven  her  neck  and  arms.  How  >hould  ho 
know  that  it'was  a  blush  of  burning  shame? 
rhere  was  but  one  way  to  interpret  her  con- 
usiou  after  the.  half-confession  of  her  mntb* 
T;  ami  it  was  an  interpretation  too  Mattering 
o  his  vanity  to  be  doubted.  She  loved  him! 
Poor  Philip"  felt  himself  getting  rather  con- 
used,  too.  and  seated  himself  quite  close  to 
icr,  witjiout  knowing  exactly  wJiat  he  win 
ibou,. 


PHILIP  EARNSCL1FFE. 


21 


Clara  bent  over  her  book  again,  and  sigh- 
ed— no  acted  sigh.  Whatever  her  emotion 
at  that  moment,  it  was  real,  although  it  arose 
not  from  love  to  her  cousin.  She  felt  that 
her  mother  had  spoken;  and  all  the  linger- 
ing pride,  of  her  girlhood  was  warring  against 
the  worldly  obedience  to  which  she  had  been 
trained.  When  she  looked  in  Philip's  bright, 
young  face,  too,  she  felt  more  than  her  usual 
disgust  at  the  part  she  was  acting.  This 
time  she  was  not  trying  to  win  a  mere  man 
of  the  world,  but  to  deceive  a  frank  and 
truthful  nature.  She  remembered  him  as 
the  one  friend  she  had  ever  possessed  since 
her  childhood  ;  and,  even  now.  the  thought  of 
speaking  openly  to  him,  and  saving  them 
both,  struggled  in  her  bosom. 

"You  are  ill,  dear  Clara — vcmr  color 
changes  every  minute  !  "  He  took  her  hand, 
and  was  shocked  at  the  clammy,  death-like 
touch. 

"  Not  ill,  Philip.  T  am  ill  in  mind  onlv. 
Cousin "  (her  cheeks  were  again  on  fire), 
'*  I  fear  mv  mother  has  spoken  to  vou — my 

i  "    *«  •*  * 

mother " 

But  her  proud  lip  could  not  speak  those 
humiliating  words,  and  quivered  with  agita- 
tion as  she  vainly  tried  to  continue. 

Unhappily  for  himself,  poor  Philip  was  too 
generous  to  allow  her  to  do  so.  He  reflect- 
ed not  that  on  a  few  words  of  his  the  after- 
coloring  of  his  whole  life  might  depend  ;  and 
that,  in  saving  her  a  passing  humiliation,  he 
was  about  to  sacrifice  himself  for  ever,  with- 
out one  warmer  feeling  than  pity  in  his  heart. 
He  only  saw  a  broken-hearted  girl  trying, 
with  pale,  trembling  lips,  to  exonerate  her- 
self in  his  eyes  for  having  given  him  her 
love  unasked,  and  all  the  noblest  feelings  of 
his  nature  were  awakened.  Throwing  his 
arms  around  her,  he  whispered,  before'  she 
could  speak  another  word,  "  Oh,  Clara,  con- 
fide all  yotrr  sorrow  to  me — for  I  love  you  !  " 

She  had  not  then  the  principle  to  withdraw, 
though  she  shuddered  in  his  embrace ;  and 
the  recollection  of  the  warm  love  she  had 
once  known  for  Harry  Douglas  came  like  a 
mockery  to  her,  even  at  that  moment,  when, 
with  a  selfish,  unbeating  heart,  she  was 
about  to  give  herself  for  life  to  another. 
Her  cold  lips  were  pressed  unresistingly  to 
Philip's,  and  he  poured  forth  passionate  words 
which,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  he 
actually  himself  believed  were  genuine. 

When  Lady  St.  Leger  entered  the  room, 
after  a  reasonably  long  time  had  elapsed, 
her  delighted  eyes  beheld  them,  standing  to- 
gether near  the  fire,  Clara's  face  deeply 
flushed,  and  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  her 
companion  speaking  in  low  but  animated 
tones,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  his. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Philip  found 
himself  on  his  way  home,  excessively  be- 
wildered at  all  that  had  passed,  and  the  ac- 
cepted suitor  of  Lord  St.  Leger's  daughter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  woidd  be  difficult  to  describe  Mr. 
Earnscliffe's  feelings  on  hearing  of  Philip's 
sudden  engagement  to  his  cousin.  Of  course, 
he  flew  into  a  great  passion  at  first,  and  re- 
fused point-blank  to  give  his  consent,  saying 
"  the  boy  had  been  decoyed,  inveigled,  taken, 
in."  But  this  he  would  have  considered  it  a 
sort  of  duty  to  do,  whatever  project  of  mar- 
riage had  been  formed  by  his  nephew  with- 
out his  own  advice.  On  cooling  down,  and 
reflecting  more  calmly,  tiowever,  the  leading 
weakness  of  the  old  man's  nature  was  im- 
mensely flattered  at  the  'idea  of  the  St.  Le- 
gers — the  proudest  people  amongst  the  whole 
English  nobility — catching  eagerly  at  Tiis 
heir.  It  had  always  been  his  secret  hope 
that  Philip  would  one  day  marry  into  a  noble 
family,  and  thus  unite  in  his  posterity  his  own 
hardly-earned  wealth  with  aristocratic  blood. 
As  he  thought  over  it  he  became  gradually 
more  reconciled  to  his  nephew  marrying  so 
young,  and  at  length  grew  really  friendly 
to  the  match,  although  he  made  himself 
thoroughly  disagreeable  to  everybody,  long 
after  he  had,  in  his  own  mind,  determined 
to  consent.  Lady  St.  Leger's  expectations, 
however,  of  handsome  settlements,  on  the 
part  of  old  Miles,  were  grievously  disap- 
pointed. A  few  days  after  he  had  given  his 
tardy  consent  to  the  engagement,  Philip 
hinted  delicately  that  it  was  probable  his  fu- 
ture father-in-law  would  be  desirous  of  an 
interview,  on  business,  with  him. 

'*  Then,  let  him  come  here,  Phil !  I  am 
quite  ready  to  tell  him  my  intentions  towards 
you  ;  and  I  hope  his  daughter's  prospects  are 
one-tenth  part  as  good  as  your  own — though 
I  much  doubt  it." 

Philip  thought  it  would  be  well  for  his  un- 
cle to  wait  upon  Lord  St.  Leger — Miles  did 
not. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it — it  is  all  their  doing! 
They  want  to  marry  into  my  family,  not  I  in- 
to theirs.  You  know,"  he  added,  maliciously, 
"  the  proposal  was  not  made  in  my  drawing- 
room,  after  dinner.  Don't  distress  yourself, 
Phil ;  your  noble  father-in-law  will  find  out 
his  way  to  me,  when  money  is  to  be  talked 
of,  without  our  assistance." 

And  he  was  right.  Two  days  afterwards, 
the  proudest  gentleman  in  England  was 
standing  nervously  in  old  Miles's  study  for 
half  an  hour,  waiting  to  see  him,  while  Miles 
finished  his  luncheon. 

"  Don't  fret  yourself,  Phil,"  he  remarked, 
as  he  leisurely  rose  from  the  table;  "my 
lord  has  had  patience,  I  have  no  doubt." 

When  he  entered  the  study,  Lord  St.  Le- 
ger advanced  warmly  to  meet  him.  "  My 
dear  sir " 

"  How  are  you?  Pray  sit  down,  and  we 
will  at  once  begin  the  business  you  have 
come  upon." 

"  Your  health,  my  dear  Mr.  EarnsclifFe?  " 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"  Is  excellent,  my  lord.  I  am  as  clear  in 
my  head  as  I  was  fifty  years  ago,  when  1 
started  life  the  lowest  clerk  in  a  merchant's 
office.  You  are  aware  that  I  am  a  self-made 
man,  Lord  St.  Leger.  Without  birth,  con- 
nection, or  any  advantages  but  my  own 
brain  and  perseverance,  I  became  what  1 
am.  Pray  seat  yourself,  and  we  will  enter 
into  accounts  at  once.  As  you  are  the  young 
lady's  father,  and  I  am  only  Philip's  uncle, 
you  will,  perhaps,  first  have  the  goodness  to 
state  the  settlements  you  propose  making 
upon  your  daughter,  and  I  will  then  tell  you 
my  own  intentions  towards  my  nephew. 

Lord  St.  Leger's  face  had  grown  several 
shades  more  sallow  than  even  its  usual  ca- 
daverous hue,  during  Miles  EarnscliffVs  lit- 
tle speech.  The  old  merchant,  with  spite- 
ful pleasure,  had  purposely  recalled  his  own 
humble  origin,  and  made  his  noble  compan- 
ion feel,  to  the  full,  the  true  position  in 
which  they  stood  to  each  other.  It  was  with 
an  immense  effort  that  he  swallowed  his 
proud  indignation,  and  brought  out  a  few 
common-place  remarks — very  courteous  ones, 
but  not  at  all  in  answer  to  Miles's  question. 

"But  the  figure,  my  lord?"  he  said, 
sharply,  drawing  an  immense  sheet  of  blue 
paper  before  him,  and  placing  his  pen  in  the 
extreme  left  hand  corner,  as  though  the 
whole  page  would  be  required  to  note  down 
Lord  St.  Leger's  magnificent  intentions.  "  I 
am  a  plain  man,  as  you  know ;  and,  though 
I  have  greatly  objected  to  the  whole  thing — 
thinking  Phil,  with  his  unsettled  position  and 
love  of  society,  far  too  young,  and  unsteady, 
my  lord,  to  marry — yet,  as  everybody  else 
seems  bent  upon  'it,  and  the  poor  boy  feels 
his  honor  engaged — may  I  trouble  you  to 
pass  the  ink? — thank  you — feels  his  honor 
engaged — why,  I  have  given  my  consent. 
And  the  only  thing  now  is  for  you  and  me 
to  decide  upon  the  settlements,  and  let  them 
marry ;  and,  considering  my  objections  to 
the  engagement  from  the  first,  I  think  I  am 
now  acting  generously  in  meeting  you  half 
w;iy  about  the  money." 

Lord  St.  Leger  bowed  and  smiled.  He 
was  bland  and  courteous,  made;  vague  prom- 
i~c^,  and  commented  largely  upon  the  other's 
well-known  riches  and  generosity;  but  it 
was  all  of  no  avail.  Nothing  led  Miles  for 
one  moment,  from  tlieiractual  business  :  ami, 
after  his  lordship's  most  flattering  speeches 
and  graceful  perorations,  lie  invariably  re- 
turned to  the  original  question — "Then 
what  amount  will  you  settle  upon  your 
daughter?  " 

"  At  length,  alter  as  many  wily  turns  and 
fine  xmnding  phrases,  "  signifying  nothing,'1 
a^  would  lia\e  done  credit  to  a  Vienna  note. 
Lord    St.    Leger    was    beaten.       Brought     io 
tin-  actual  point  —  but.  still  with  an  attempt  at 
dignity — the.    answer     came    out.      "  In    the 
t    -i.iie   df  the   country — the    dilliciihy 
of    getting  rent-      ami  some  slight,  em 
<>{   his  own,  which  would,  he,  ti 


soon  be  over,  he  could  give  his  daughter- 
nothing." 

"  Very  well,  my  lord,"  said  Miles,  with 
one  of  his  pleasantest  smiles,  and  carefully 
replacing  his  unsullied  paper  in  a  portfolio ; 
"  t  en  I  believe  our  conversation  is  at  an 
end.  I  had  proposed  to  settle  the  same  sum 
as  yourself  upon  your  daughter;  I  will  do 
so  now,  and  it  rests  with  you  that  the 
amount  is  so  small.  With  regard  to  my 
nephew,  I  have  long  since  made  my  will, 
and  at  my  death  he  will  inherit  all  my  prop- 
erty. His  marriage — should  the  projected 
union  still  be  carried  out — will  not  alter  my 
intentions  towards  him,  poor  fellow !  and 
during  my  life-time,  I  shall  allow  him  what 
I  consider  sufficient — not  more.  It  is  well 
that  he  should  also  depend  upon  his  own  ex- 
ertions." 

Lord  St.  Leger  rose,  his  face  livid  with 
rage  at  his  utter  failure,  but  his  presence  of 
mind  still  not  forsaking  him.  At  that  mo- 
ment of  supreme  disappointment,  he  felt 
that  it  were  better  to  marry  his  daughter  to 
Philip,  although  without  settlements,  than 
not  to  marry  her  at  all ;  and,  taking  Earns- 
eliffn's  hand,  he  expressed  with  dignified 
composure  his  regret  that  he  was  not  able 
to  act  as  he  himself  wished  on  the  solemn 
occasion  of  his  only  child's  marriage',  thank- 
ing him  at  the  same  .time  lor  his  generous 
intention  of  making  settlements  equivalent 
to  his  own  upon  Clara.  And  so,  with  still  a 
calm  exterior,  but  in  his  bosom  a  very  hell 
of  hatred  towards  his  future  connections,  he 
left  the  room. 

"  I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  muttered 
Miles,  after  he  was  gone.  "  They  are  sell- 
ing their  nobility  for  my  money — and  poor 
Philip  is  just  to  be  thrown  in,  as  the  least 
important  part  of  the  bargain.  Hang  the 
fellow !  with  his  white,  deceitful  face,  and 
glib  words.  He  was  as  difficult  to  be  brought 
to  speak  as  an  attorney.  And  his  promises, 
and  his  grand  words,  and  his  inquiries  about 
my  health — my  health  !  ho,  ho  !  when  he 
would  like  to  see  me  drop  down  dead  on  the 
wedding-day!  However,  I  will  say  one 
thing  for  him — he  behaved  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  speak  much  of  Phil- 
ip's courtship.  Having  got  into  the  entangle- 
ment, he  trier!  hard  to  make  himself  believe, 
that  lie  had  done  so  wisely,  and  of  his  own 
free  will.  He  consequently  endeavored  to 
be  in  love;  and  then,  finding  the  task  some- 
what, tedious,  only  wished  the  whole  thing 
were  o\er.  He  xvas  young  and  hopeful,  and 
life  li>r  him  held  out  so  xvide  a  field  of  am- 
bition, he  saw  before  him  such  long  years  of 
success  in  the  world,  that  his  marrrige  did  not 
•i  p  pear  an  all- import  ant  event,  lie  had  nc\  cr 
felt  anything  of  love  beyond  mere  box  ish  fan- 
ihat  vague  yearning  for  ideal  beau- 
x', which  is  part  of  a  pO6?fl  temperament  ; 
uid  anv  idea  of  domestic  happiness  had  in-xer 
his  mind.  He  was  loud  of'  society, 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


23 


where  he  shone  supreme — those  refined  cir- 
cles of  the  great  London  world,  to  which  he 
had  universal  entree;  but  he  also  delighted 
— and  who  does  not  at  twenty  ? — in  another 
society,  far  more  brilliant  and  less  restrained, 
that  of  artists  and  actors — those  delightful 
petits  soupers,  after  the  opera,  where  all  was 
mirth  and  laughter,  and  of  which  he  had  not 
yet  learned  to  weary ;  the  rehearsals,  the 
pretty  faces  that  smiled  upon  him ;  in  short, 
all  the  mimic  but  exciting  life  of  the  green- 
room. It  would  have  taken  a  passionate 
love,  a  most  sweet  and  winning  wife  to  con- 
vert Philip  Earnscliffe,  at  twenty,  into  a  do- 
mestic husband.  And  he  married  Lady  Clara 
St.  Leger.  The  preliminaries  of  the  marriage 
were  speedily  got  over.  There  was  no  re- 
luctance of  the  bride,  no  tearful  wishes  for 
delay  on  the  part  of  the  bride's  mother  ;  and 
the  bridegroom,  if  not  ardent  about  his  mar- 
riage appeared  extremely  anxious  for  the 
termination  of  his  courtship.  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe, after  all,  made  the  young  couple  a 
handsome  allowance,  and  they  took  a  fur- 
nished house  in  Park  Lane  for  the  coming 
season. 

By  tacit  consent  neither  of  them  spoke  of 
any  tour  after  their  marriage.  Their  honey- 
moon was  to  be  passed  at  the  estate  in  York- 
shire, whither  Miles  and  Philip  had  talked 
of  going  previous  to  his  engagement,  and 
afterwards  they  were  immediately  to  return 
to  London.  Philip  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
given  up  all  his  intentions  of  solitude  and 
improvement,  and  to  think  more  of  society 
than  ever;  and  Clara  remained  passive 
whatever  was  planned  for  the  future. 

The  wedding-day  came,  and  they  were 
married.  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Leger  showed 
the  proper  amount  of  feeling  at  the  touch- 
ing event,  although  the  bride  was  cold  and 
tearless.  There  was  a  profusion  of  silver 
and  orange  flowers,  school-children  with  bas- 
kets of  fady- looking  green  leaves,  and  pret- 
ty bridesmaids,  and  meaningless  young  men, 
and  pompous  old  relations.  Speeches  were 
made  and  healths  drank ;  and  the  bride's 
mother  kissed  the  bridegroom,  who  appear- 
ed uneasy  and  nervous,  as  though  he  were 
just  beginning  to  realise  the  meaning  of  what 
he  had  been  about.  Old  Miles,  in  a  blue 
coat  and  gilt  buttons  of  antique  workmanship, 
looked  exceedingly  out  of  his  place,  and 
made  sarcastic  remarks  to  everybody.  And 
so  the  happy  morning  went  off;  and  the 
bridal  pair  departed,  and  the  guests  after 
them ;  and  the  f  ither  and  mother  were  left 
alone,  to  think  over  their  daughter's  mar- 
riage. Miles  drove  back  to  his  house  about 
ten  miles  from  ttfvvn — the  house  in  which  he 
had  first  received  little  Philip — and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  hung  heavily  upon  him. 
He  walked  about  his  gardens  with  less  inter- 
est than  usual,  and  at  six  he  sat  down  to  his 
lonely  dinner.  It  was,  of  course,  a  thing 
of  frequento  ccurrence  for  him  to  dine  alone, 
but  then  he  always  knew  that  Philip  was  en- 


joying himself  in  the  world,  and  thought  of 
all  the  good  stories  he  would  tell  him  at 
breakfast  next  morning ;  for  Philip  knew  the 
pleasure  this  gave  his  uncle,  and  never  failed 
in  being  punctual  at  the  morning  meal. 
Now  it  was  different ;  his  life  was  again  to 
be  lonely,  and  for  ever.  Philip  might  come 
as  his  guest — but  that  was  all ;  he  was  mar- 
ried, and  every  other  tie  would  be  broken. 

After  dinner  he  sat  long  by  the  fire ;  and, 
as  he  watched  the  red  logs  sparkle,  his  mem- 
ory recalled  that  winter  evening  when  the 
little,  bright-haired  child  first  appeared  at  his 
lonely  hearth.  He  traced  all  his  young  life 
since  then ;  his  childhood,  which  had  made 
the  silent  house  so  joyous  with  his  shouts, 
and  laughter,  and  thousand  affectionate, 
winning  ways ;  his  holidays,  made  happy  at 
Christmas  with  his  skating  and  sledging,  and 
noisy  in-door  games ;  even  happier  at  Mid- 
summer, when  Miles  took  him  to  the  sea- 
side, and  used  to  sit  on  the  beach,  watching 
the  boy  swimming,  delighted,  over  the 
smooth  summer  sea.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  unexpected  outbreak  of  Philip's  genius 
— his  success  in  the  world — his  own  gratified 
pride  in  his  nephew's  distinction ;  and  he  felt 
he  had  never  known  how  much  he  loved  him 
till  now. 

"  And  I  let  him  marry  that  idiot's  pale- 
faced  daughter ! "  he  exclaimed  bitterly, 
aloud,  "  for  her  rank  and  birth,  as  though 
they  would  make  his  home  happy,  when  I 
might  have  prevented  the  whole  thing  by 
one  word  of  disinheriting  him.  Married, 
and  not  yet  one-and-twenty  ;  my  poor  boy  !  '* 

He  remained  long  looking  vacantly  at  the 
fire ;  and,  at  length,  tears  gathered  slowly 
in  the  old  man's  eyes.  They  were  the  only 
ones  shed  on  Philip's  wedding-day. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ALONE  in  the  country,  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  Philip  found  his  honeymoon  amply 
long  enoguh  to  awaken  him  to  a  true  sense 
of  the  error  he  had  committed.  He  soon 
saw  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn 
into  marriage  with  a  woman  to  whom  he  was 
indifferent;  while,  before  he  had  been  mar- 
ried many  days,  doubts  had  already  dawn- 
ed upon  his  mind  as  to  the  real  motive  of 
Clara  in  becoming  his  wife.  When  he  was 
relieved  from  the  necessity  of  constantly 
acting  love  himself,  he  had  time  to  observe 
her  more  closely ;  and  he  was  forced  to  ad- 
mit that  her  cheeks  were  just  as  pale,  her 
spirits  as  dull,  now  that  she  was  his  wife,  as 
they  had  been  six  weeks  before,  when  her 
mother  represented  her  as  pining  under  a 
hopeless  attachment. 

Was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  that  she 
had  acted  with  duplicity,  and  married  him 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


without  love,  only  because  he  was  his  uncle's 
heir  ?  The  thought  filled  him  with  ineffable 
disgust.  He  was  far  too  proud  to  recriminate 
or  demand  an  explanation,  so  he  remained  si- 
lent ;  but,  in  these  first  days  of  married  life 
— so  rarely  ruffled  by  suspicion — a  feeling 
of  estrangement  had  already  risen  in  Philip's 
heart  towards  his  wife.  Besides  this,  he  was 
in  the  very  brightness  of  life  and  youth ; 
and  there  was  something  excessively  irksome 
to  him  in  Clara's  cold,  silent  companionship. 
For  what  had  appeared  gentleness  in  a  cou- 
sin was  very  insipid  in  a  wife.  She  could 
neither  warm  into  admiration  at  his  conver- 
sation— which,  to  all  others,  had  so  rare  a 
charm — nor  share  in  his  enthusiastic  visions 
for  the  future.  A  monosyllable,  a  quickly- 
fading  smile,  was  her  usual  reply ;  and  the 
bridegroom  soon  longed  impatiently  for  the 
termination  of  those  endless  thirty  days, 
which,  according  to  the  laws  of  English  so- 
ciety, it  is  necessary  for  newly-married  per- 
sons to  spend  in  banishment. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  the  country,  Clara?" 
he  asked,  the  night  before  their  journey 
homewards,  as  the  long  winter  evening 
passed  slowly  by. 

He  had  been  reading — she  gazing  in  the 
fire  (it  was  a  peculiarity  of  Lady  Clara's  that 
she  never  worked)  ;  and  a  sufficiently  long 
time  had  elapsed  without  either  of  them 
speaking  a  word. 

"  I,  when  I  was  quite  young" — how  the 
expression  jarred  upon  Philip's  ear — "  I 

f  reatly  preferred  the  country ;  I  think,  then, 
should  have  liked  to  remain  for  ever  among 
the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  which  I  happen- 
ed to  visit  when  I  was  about  seventeen" — 
her  face  grew  soft,  for  a  moment,  at  the  re- 
collection— "but  after  that  I  returned  to 
London  ;  I  Avas  presented,  and  since,  I  have, 
of  course,  been  so  continually  in  society, 
that  I  have  never  had  time  to  think  of  a 
country  life ;  for,  even  in  the  country,  at 
Chri.-tmas,  one  has  as  much  gaiety  as  in 
town." 

"And  now?" 

•'  Now  ?  Oh,  of  course,  you  prefer  being 
in  London,  do  you  not?  " 

"Hut  for  yourself?" 

"For myself,  I  am  indifferent."  And  the 
conversation  closed. 

She  7/vt.s-  indifferent  to  almost  everything 
now.  With  her  marriage  had  ended  even 
her  old  friendship  for  Philip;  she  knew  well 
that  he  did  not  love  her,  and  she  could  not 
forget  the  unworthy  manner  in  which  IK-  had 
been  won.  It  was  a  perpetual  wound  to  her 
pride,  and  she  eared  not  that,  her  manner  be- 
trayed the.  coldnen  of  her  feelin-s;  indeed, 

fdic  pref.-rred  her  husband  should  no  longer 
believe  her  more  attached  to  him  than  she 
was  in  reality.  It  was  a  relief  to  both  when 
they  returned  to  London.  The  train  arrived 
late  in  the  evening,  and  Philip  hailed  the  I.,-, 
and  Miidke.  and  I'.abcl-sounds  which  greeted 
Lim,  as  so  many  familiar  friends,  lie,  waa 


quite  in  good  spirits  during  dinner,  and 
laughed  and  talked  -vith  all  his  old  manner. 
They  had  found  scores  of  invitations  await- 
ing them ;  for  himself,  notes  from  his  old  ac- 
quaintances, theatrical  announcements,  com- 
munications from  his  publishers  ;  he  seemed 
to  have  returned  to  life. 

"You  look  tired,  Clara,  after  your  jour- 
ney," he  remarked,  kindly,  when  they  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room,  "  and  are  not 
equal,  probably,  to  the  fatigue  of  going  out; 
otherwise,  there  is  a  new  opera  to-night." 

"Shall  you  go?"  she  asked,  with  a  faint 
indication  of  surprise. 

"  Well,  dearest,  I  have  so  much  news  tc» 
hear,  that  I  must  just  go  down  to  the  club." 
Although  only  married  a  month,  a  marital 
intuition  made  him  feel  that  it  was  as  well  to 
suppress,  *'  and  to  the  opera  afterwards." 

"Then  good  night."  she  answered,  with 
abrupt  coldness ;  "  I  am  tired,  and  shall  re- 
tire to  rest  at  once." 

She  left  the  room  without  another  word. 
One  look  of  entreaty — if  she  had  thrown  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  whispered,  "Ah! 
Philip,  do  not  leave  me  so  soon,"  he  would 
have  stayed;  but  her  cold,  almost  insulting, 
manner  of  wishing  him  good  night,  stung 
him  deeply. 

"  She  wishes  to  treat  me  like  a  boy,"  was 
his  thought;  and  he  went  off  to  his  club. 

Clara  heard  the  street  door  shut  loudly  af- 
ter him,  while  she  was  still  slowly  ascending 
the  staircase.  She  felt  really  weary  and  sick 
at  heart,  and  when  she  entered  her  room, 
did  not  ring  for  her  maid.  She  wished  to  be 
alone,  and  seating  herself  before  the  dress- 
ing-table, she  gazed  long  at  the  reflection  of 
her  own  face  in  the  glass ;  she  looked  pale, 
tired,  and  not  youthful. 

"  And  thus  begins  my  new  life !  "  she 
said,  at  length,  aloud.  "  Married  to  a  mere 
boy,  who  took  me  from  pity,  and,  after  a 
month,  leaves  me  alone  to  seek  his  former 
amusements  on  the  first  night  of  our  return  ; 
without  love  in  my  own  heart,  and  loathing 
myself  for  having  married  him  ;  these  are  the 
conditions  of  my  uxistance — my  prospects 
for  the  future.  But  you  succeeded,  mother; 
you  have  married  me  to  Miles  Earnscliffe'l 
heir. 

She  nerved  herself  proudly,  and,  turning 
from  the  glass,  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  while  her  lips  trembled,  and  occasion- 
al her  hands  clenched  involuntarily.  Few 
who  knew  her  in  tin;  world  would  have  be- 
lieved her  Capable  6f  passionate  emotion  like 
this;  but  though  worldly  and  selfish,  she  had 
still  some  of  a  woman's  deepest  feelings  lelt. 
Little  as  she  eared  for  her  husband,  his  care- 
le.>sness  to  her,  on  the  lirM  e\ennr;  ol  their  i  e- 
turn  home,  had  aroused  all  her  pride,  and  with 
it  the  never-dving  thoughts  of  her  firs  I  lover 
— that  recolleetion  which  was  the  avenging 
ghost  of  the  youth  and  love  she  had  so  |.iti- 

.-dy  crushed  in  her  own  bosom.  She  -a\v 
hcr>clf  as  she  was — her  ambitious  plans  sue- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


25 


cessful,  married  to  a  man  whom  every  girl  in 
London  had  been  anxious  to  win ;  and  then 
thought  what  she  might  have  been,  had  she, 
eight  years  ago,  followed  the  honest  dictates 
of  her  heart.  It  was  a  bitter  thought. 

Suddenly  she  paused  in  her  hurried  walk, 
and  unlocked  a  case  which  stood  upon  the 
dressing-table.  Within  lay  a  perfect  mass 
of  jewels — diamonds,  pearls,  emeralds — the 
costly  wedding  presents,  mostly  given  her  by 
her  husband  and  his  uncle.  They  only  re- 
minded her  that  for  them,  and  the  wealth 
which  bought  them,  she  had  married  Philip; 
and  she  pushed  them  aside  with  disgust, 
paused  a  few  seconds,  and  then  touching, 
with  a  somewhat  faltering  hand,  the  spring 
of  a  hidden  drawer,  drew  from  it  what  appear- 
ed, from  the  care  with  which  it  was  preserved, 
to  be  a  treasured  relic.  It  was  only  a  little 
sprig  of  mountain  heather,  now  colorless  and 
withered  with  time,  but  worth  more  to  the  un- 
happy woman  than  a  thousand  such  glittering 
heaps  as  lay  before  her.  For  it  had  been  pluck- 
ed by  Harry  Douglas  on  the  first  day  he  had 
ever  spoken  to  her  in  love,  in  that  lonely 
Highland  glen,  whose  rocks  and  heath-cov- 
ered banks  she  had  never  been  able  to  for- 
get ;  and.  once  more  she  heard  the  throstle 
singing,  and  the  wild  bee  humming  past  her, 
as  on  that  very  summer  morning.  She 
looked  long  at  it,  with  that  eager  recalling 
look,  such  as  a  mother  may  bestow  upon 
some  relic  of  the  babe  she  lost  in  her  youth ; 
but  yet  she  did  not  raise  it  to  her  lips,  or 
utter  one  pleasant  word.  She  tried  to  re- 
member that  she  had  herself  discarded  him  ; 
and  was  now  the  wife  of  another  man ;  and 
at  length  with  a  supreme  effort,  but  still 
tearless  eyes,  returned  it  to  its  hiding-place. 

Then  she  seated  herself  in  a  chair  before 
the  fire,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
She  remained  long  so,  thinking  again  and 
again  that  humiliating  thought,  "  He  took 
me  from  a  feeling  of  pity,  not  of  love,  and 
forsakes  me  already."  She  traced  clearly 
her  future  position  in  the  world — unattrac- 
tive, sick  (her  health  was  delicate),  without 
interest  in  anything,  and  married  to  a  man 
five  years  younger  than  herself  in  reality, 
but  a  whole  life-time  in  feeling — a  man  sought 
for  by  all  London — brilliant,  fond  of  excite- 
ment and  society,  all  that  she  had  wearied 
of  and  outlived.  She  remained  long  motion- 
less, then  rang  for  her  maid,  and  retired  to 
rest  composed,  but  tearless.  But  when  mid- 
night passed,  and  she  heard  the  early  morn- 
ing hours  strike,  one  by  one,  and  still  Philip 
did  not  return,  her  calmness  at  length  for- 
sook hsr,  and  she  burst  into  a  long  and 
passionate  flood  of  tears. 

Philip  found  a  warm  reception  every  where. 
At  the  club  he  made  a  dozen  engagements, 
most  of  them  to  bachelor  parties  ;  although 
he  at  first  said,  laughing,  he  could  not  think 
of  accepting  them  now  that  he  was  a  married 
man  ;  heard  all  the  newest  town  gossip  ;  and 
then  went  off  with  some  of  his  friends  to  the 


opera,  where  they  were  still  in  time  for  the 
two  last  acts.  As  he  took  his  accustomed 
place  in  the  stalls,  he  was  greeted  with  smiles 
irom  all  quarters  of  the  house,  for  his  mar- 
riage had  only  spoilt  him  in  the  eyes  of  a 
few  manoeuvring  mothers  and  their  daughters, 
and,  with  this  exception,  all  his  fair  friends 
were  as  delighted  to  see  him  as  ever. 

A  new  dancer  was  to  make  her  first  ap- 
pearance that  evening,  so  Philip  had  not  the 
courage  to  leave  before  the  ballet,  as  he  had 
otherwise  intended.  He  thought  he  would 
just  wait  to  see  her,  and  then  return  home. 
The  debutante  was  charming,  and  Philip's  ap- 
plause unbounded  ;  he  forgot  time,  and  home, 
and  Clara,  while  watching  the  exquisitely 
graceful  movements  of  this  young  girl,  who 
was  of  surpassing  loveliness ;  and  he  almost 
started  when,  at  length,  the  ballet  terminated 
in  a  flood  of  rose-light,  and  he  was  reminded 
that  it  was  long  past  midnight.  Of  course, 
now  that  all  attraction  was  over,  Philip  at 
once  prepared  to  be  off;  and  he  was  at- 
tempting to  pass  quickly  through  the  crowd, 
when  in  the  lobby  one  of  his  friends  ap- 
proached, and  shaking  Earnscliffe'  hand, 
gave  him  a  little,  delicately-folded  pink  note. 

"  In  your  old  luck,  Phil !  "  he  whispered. 
"Upon "my  word,  it  is  ratber  soon  for  a 
bridegroom  to  receive  such  wicked-looking 
missives.  I  suppose  La  Thionville  spied  you 
out  from  behind  the  scenes,  for  she  wrote 
this  note  in  great  haste,  and  begged  me,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  to  deliver  it  to  you  without 
fail.  However,  you  may  set  your  conscience 
at  rest;  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  it,  for 
Celeste  read  it  to  me  as  she  wrote." 

The  note  was  written  in  a  small,  rather 
illegible,  hand,  in  French,  and  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  CHER  M.  EARXSCLIFFE, — Although  you 
are  married,  I  suppose  you  will  not  desert  all 

your  old  friends.     Lord  B ,  Neville,  and 

a  few  others  will  sup  with  me  to-night ;  we 
shall  only  want  our  poet  to  be  complete. 
Do  come  to  us.  Votre  amie,  CELESTE." 

Philip  hesitated.  "Not  to-night,"  he 
said.  "Make  my  excuses  to-  Celeste; 
another  time " 

"  Nonsense,11  returned  Neville;  he  was  a 
rising  young  artist,  and  an  old  school-friend 
of  Philip's.  "  If  we  once  allow  you  a  pre- 
cedent, we  shall  be  always  losing  you,  on  the 
score  of  your  new  duties.  Celeste  tells  me 
that  she  has  got  F ,  and  B ,  and  lit- 
tle Fridoline  herself.  We  shall  be  a  delight- 
ful party — not  one  stupid  person — and  you 
know  you  are  not  obliged  to  stop  late."  And 
taking  Philip's  arm,  he  led  him  off — it  must 
be  confessed  a  not  unwilling  victim.  They 
drove  in  EarnsclifFe's  cab  to  La  Thionville's 
pretty  house  in  the  Regent's  Park,  where  all 
the  guests  were  already  assembled. 

"  I  know  I  am  welcome,"  said  Neville,  on 
entering  the  drawing-room,  "  but  not  for  my 
own  sake.  I  have  brought  back  an  old  friend 
to  the  land  of  the  living." 


26 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


The  Frenchwoman  gave  a  theatrical  start 

on  seeing  EarnsclifFe ;  then  welcomed  him 

with  real  delight.     She  took  his  arm  as  they 

•went  down  to  supper,  and  said  in  a  low  tone, 

"  Ah,  Philippe  !  I  am  so  surprised  and  glad 

»  to  see  you.     With  all  your  English  ideas,  I 

•  feared   we   should  not  have  y.m   among   us 

again,  for  a  year  at  the  very  least.11 

The  party  was  brilliant;  but  Philip  could 
not  at  first  feel  quite  at  his  ease.  He  knew 
that  it  was  not  the  sort  of  society  fo.r  him  to 
make  his  first  appearance  in  as  a  married 
man ;  and  the  remark  of  Celeste  had  unin- 
tentionally strengthened  this  feeling,  so  for 
a  time  he  remained  silent  and  constrained. 
But  he  was  among  people  who  would  not  let 
him  long  continue  so.  After  trying  in  vain 
to  make  him  talk,  Celeste  laughed  malicious- 
ly, and  asked  if  he  was  mentally  composing 
a  poem  on  the  happiness  of  married  life,  to 
account  for  his  silence. 

**  If  he  is,"  cried  little  Fridoline,  in  her 
pretty  English,  "  Monsieur  Earn sclifFe's  face 
is  quite  proof  enough  of  his  theory,  without 
troubling  himself  to  finish  the  poem  !  " 

Celeste,  then,  looking  at  the  time-piece, 
inquired  till  what  hour  he  was  permitted  to 
remain,  as  she  would  not  suffer  him  in  her 
house  to  stay  one  second  longer ;  and  it  soon 
ended  by  Philip,  who  tried  in  vain  to  be  dig- 
nified, becoming  as  merry  as  his  two  fair 
neighbors. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  his  position  was  a 
somewhat  dangerous  one.  Celeste,  on  whose 
right  he  sat — she  always  reserved  this  place 
of  honor  for  Philip — was  a  sparkling,  ani- 
mated brunette,  of  some  age  under  thirty. 
She  was  not  a  first-rate  singer ;  but  her  act- 
ing was  excellent.  She  was  always  natural 
except  off  the  stage — never  over-strained — 
never  vulgar — indeed,  it  was  said  Celeste 
was,  by  birth,  a  lady ;  or,  at  least,  in  her 
early  youth,  had  moved  in  good  Parisian  so- 
ciety. She  had  lived  long  in  Italy  while 
studying  her  profession,  before  she  appeared 
in  England ;  but  she  was  French  by  birth, 
and  had  all  the  liveliness  of  her  country- 
women, softened  down  by  a  slight  shade  of 
romantic  sentiment,  which,  as  she  said,  she 
had  "  learnt"  in  Italy.  Doubtless,  she  had 
only  "  learnt  "  it;  but «it  became  her  might- 
ily; and  when  her  naturally  laughing  lips 
trembled  a  little,  or  her  dark  eyes  filled  with 
te:irs,  Oleste  was  unquestionably  fascinating. 
She  always  ap;»":uvd  well-off,  and  piqued 
herself  greatly  upon  her  house,  her  parties, 
and,  above  all,  her  wine,  which,  wonderful 
to  say  for  an  actress,  was  really  good.  She 
liked  to  collect,  at  her  little  suppers,  all  the 
d'-vre>t  men  in  London;  for,  though  she 
never  read  aiivthing  herself  but  her  /•«'' ^.  she 
liked  to  be  >|ti)ken  of  ;is  p  it  romping  genius; 
and,  having  once  discovered  that  authors 
preferred  talking  of  anything  else  Letter  than 
of  each  other's  books,  >he  w.i>  never  al'r.iid 
again  of  being  bored  with  their  conversa- 
tion. 


Among  books,  however,  she  made  one  ex- 
ception. She  read  Philip's.  Perhaps  she 
understood  them;  more  probably  she  did 
not,  for  her  knowledge  of  English  was  very 
superficial — but,  at  all  events,  she  read  them. 
She  had  made  him  write  her  name  on  the 
title-page  of  each,  always  had  them  lying  on 
her  table  with  many  of  the  least  remarkable 
passages  marked  in  pencil;  and  once  or 
twice  she  told  Philip  she  had  "  much  weeped  " 
over  parts  he  had  rather  intended  to  be  the 
witty  ones  of  the  story.  Celeste  had  always 
cherished  a  very  romantic  sentiment  for  the 
young  author,  and  was  quite  cut  up  at.  his 
marriage,  thinking  that  her  parties  would 
probably  lose  their  best  lion  by  this  event, 
through  some  of  those  "  detestable  British 
prejudices."  His  re-appearance,  however, 
so  soon  at  her  house  put  her  in  the  highest 
spirits ;  arid  Celeste  had  never  been  more 
charming  than  she  was  that  evening. 

On  Philip's  other  side  was  "  little  Frid- 
oline," at  that  time  a  very  celebrated  actress 
and  one  whose  mysterious  appearance,  and 
subsequent  career,  had  beco.ne  a  subject  of 
universal  interest  in  London.  The  success 
of  this  girl  in  one  year  had  been,  indeed,  al- 
most fabulous.  Coming,  no  one  could  say 
whence — very  young — -without  friends,  or 
even  acquaintances — she  had  been  engaged 
at  the  French  plays  to  act  minor  parts.  But 
her  extraordinary  conception  of  character, 
and  the  original  coloring  she  threw  over  the 
most  trivial  role  she  played  were  such,  that, 
in  a  few  weeks,  hundreds  crowded  every 
night,  merely  to  see  Fridoline  acting  as  a 
soubrette.  The  manager  saw  that  he  had  had 
a  lucky  find,  promoted  her  at  once,  with  a 
good  salary,  to  first-rate  characters,  and  her 
success  in  one  season  nearly  made  his  for- 
tune. Although  her  French  was  excellent, 
and  her  pronunciation  of  it  so  true  as  to  be 
sweet  even  to  a  Parisian  ear,  she  was  not  a 
Frenchwoman.  Some  said  she  was  (rerman, 
some  Danish,  some  Russian.  When  asked 
herself,  she  invariably  answered  that,  she  had 
not  the  least  idea — that  she  had  no  country. 
no  relation,  no  other  name  than  Fridoline; 
and  the  utmost  perseverance  could  win  from 
her  no  further  reply. 

In  person  she  was  small  an  1  fair,  with  .1 
prolusion  of  waving  golden  hair,  and  large 
eyes  of  the  deepest  ha/el,  with  very  black 
eyelashes.  She  was  too  singular-looking  to 
be  exactly  beautiful,  although  it  WNU  a  lav 
•  •I  ni'i-t  peculiar  and  lasting  attraction — ;l 
face  that,  once  seen,  could  11  -\  e r  a  r  lin  bo 
forgotten,  but  haunted  lh"  nr-ni  n-y  Uk<9  one. 
of  those  old  pictures  which  (  a  mo- 

ment, in  MUM  dark  gallery,  or  in  t!i-  dim 

;iMe     ol'    :i     f.r.'i.ri,     church,   a  .1  I     \\-\T     lo>e, 
again.      She    lived    alone,    at    some    d 
from    town,    in   a  cottage    of  her    own;   and 
free,  .-uid    strange,   ;iu.l    nntiuged    with    any 
all'cct.-ition  of  propriety  .  >  iduct, 

no  breath  had  ever  been  rai-  her,  n«% 

man's  name  was  ever  nientioir-d  with  ; 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


27 


little  Fridollne  !  She  seemed  more  calcula- 
ted to  awaken  extreme  interest  and  admira- 
tion, than  any  wanner  feeling ;  and  there 
lurked  something  in  the  mocking  expression 
of  her  great,  dark  eyes,  that  would,  uncon- 
sciously, make  any  man  feel  himself  ridicu- 
lous, who  attempted  to  speak  to  her  of  love. 
She  went  seldom  into  the  society  of  other  ar- 
tists ;  La  Thionville's  being  almost  the  only 
house  at  which  she  ever  appeared.  For  Celeste 
had  seen  at  once,  with  her  natural  quickness 
in  discerning  talent,  that  Fridoline  would  one 
»day  be  distinguished ;  and  this — and  per- 
haps some  kindlier  feeling — had  made  her 
hold  out  her  hand  to  the  friendless  girl,  when 
she  first  began  her  London  career,  and  show 
her  many  little  attentions  which  Fridoline's 
ignorance  of  English  life  rendered  most  ac- 
ceptable ;  once,  even  ,  attending  her  in  an 
attack  of  sudden  illness.  Now  she  was  am- 
ply repaid.  To  say  "  Little  Fridoline  has 
promised  to  come,"  was  sufficient  inducement 
to  make  every  one  else  come  also  ;  and  any 
party  was  sure  to  go  off  brilliantly  when  she 
could  be  persuaded  to  attend.  For  Fridoline 
possessed  a  fine  and  subtle  wit ;  the  most 
cutting  powers  of  sarcasm ;  and,  at  times, 
but  rarely,  an  unexpected  and  passionate  pa- 
thos, which  made  her  conversation  unlike 
all  others.  And  in  her  society  grave  men 
of  genius  were  silent,  in  admiration  at  the 
ever-changing  fancy  and  brilliant  language 
of  this  gifted  little  being. 

She  liked  Earnscliffe ;  perhaps,  because 
he  had  never  attempted  to  pay  her  any  of 
thefadts  compliments  which  she  detested; 
perhaps,  because — although  kngwing  no 
more  of  her  history  than  did  others — some- 
thing in  his  own  heart  recognised  Fridoline's 
high  and  extraordinary  nature,  and  made 
his  manner  to  her,  while  perfectly  respectful, 
kind  and  sympathizing  beyond  that  of  mere 
acquaintance.  This  evening  she  was  in  her 
liveliest  vein  ;  every  word  that  fell  from  her 
lips  was  sparkling ;  every  idea  seemed  un- 
usually fresh  and  original,  even  from  her ; 
and  Celeste,  without  in  the  least  imitating 
Fridoline,  was  scarcely  less  brilliant; — even 
more  desirous  to  shine.  Her  green-room 
stories  of  the  last  two  months— her  excellent 
repetition  of  the  bon-mots  of  others — her  de- 
licate mimicry — and  her  art  of  hitting  off  a 
character  in  about  six  words,  had  never  ap- 
peared so  amusing  to  Philip  before.  No 
wonder  that,  in  such  society,  he  felt  like  a 
peraen  suddenly  descending  from  th$.  frigid 
Simplon  into  sunny  Italy,  after  his  courtship 
and  icy  honeymoon ;  and  that  the  hours 
struck  unheeded,  which  should  have-recalled 
him  to  his  bride.  •  He  had,  himself,  regain- 
ed all  his  usual  spirits  ;  and  when,  at  length, 
the  new  dancer  was  discussed,  grew  anima- 
ted in  hi>  praises  of  her  exceeding  beauty. 

"  T  am  slightly  acquainted  with  Miss  Elms- 
lie  (for,  with  all  her  grace,  she  is  an  English- 
woman)," said  Celeste;  "and  shall  invite 
her  some  evening,  next  week,  to  my  house. 


Of  course,  I  need  not  ask  you  to  meet  her  ?  " 
she  added,  maliciously,  to  Philip. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  replied;  "I  shall 
need  no  invitation." 

Celeste  looked  very  bright.  "And  you, 
mademoiselle,"  she  continued  to  Fridoline, 
"  will  you  also  meet  the  young  debutante  ?  " 

Fridoline  assented,  after  a  slight  hesita- 
tion ;  and  then  inquired  if  any  one  knew  the 
particulars  of  Miss  Elmslie's  history  before 
she  went  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"I  do,"  answered  Neville;  "she  comes 
from  my  own  country ;  although  not  from 
the  same  neighborhood.  I  think  I  have 
heard  that  her  father  was  a  clergyman ;  he 
was,  at  all  events,  a  professional  man,  and, 
dying  suddenly,  left  this  girl,  then  about  four- 
teen, quite  alone  in  the  world,  and  without 
money  or  protectors.  Her  extraordinary 
beauty  and  grace — I  remember  once  seeing 
her  when  she  was  a  child — were  exactly  of 
that  order  best  suited  to  the  stage ;  but.  into 
whose  hands  she  fell,  and  how  she  came  to 
adopt  dancing  as  a  profession,  I  have  never 
found  out — indeed,  it  is  only  a  few  days  since 
I  discovered  that  the  'rising  star,'  about 
whom  we  have  all  heard  so  much,  was  no 
other  than  little  Rose  Elmslie." 

Fridoline  seemed  greatly  interested  in 
these  few  words  of  the  girl's  history.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  turning  to  Celeste,  "  I  shall  be 
glad  to  meet  her.  What  evening  are  we  to 
come  ?  " 

Celeste  considered.  "Well,  after  '  Fi- 
delio,'  on  Tuesday,  if  you  are  free.  I  know 
she  does  not  perform  that  night."  Fridoline 
was  also  disengaged,  and  Neville  and  the 
two  or  three  chosen  friends,  "  honored  "  by  a 
place  at  Celeste's  table,  were  invited  and  ac- 
cepted. Lastly,  she  turned  to  Earnscliffe — 
"  And  you,"  she  said,  "  will  you  really 
come  again  so  soon  ?  " 

Philip  had  a  vague  recollection  that  on 
Tuesday  was  to  be  a  grand  entertainment  at 
some  of  his  wife's  relations ;  but  to  meet 
Fridoline,  and  the  lovely  Rose  Elmslie,  and 
half-a-dozen  of  his  own  intimate  friends,  at 
Celeste's  house,  was  to  him  temptation  irre- 
sistible— and  he  accepted. 

At  an  hour  of  the  morning  not  to  be  men- 
tioned, Neville  drove  home  with  Philip  to  his 
house  in  Park  Lane,  and  noticing  his  friend's 
timid  knock  at  his  own  door,  congratulated 
h.mself,  as  he  went,  off,  that  he  was  still  a 
bachelor.  The  sleepy  servant  looked  rather 
surprised,  as  he  admitted  his  newly-married 
master  at  such  an  hour ;  but  Philip  was  too 
much  occupied  with  his  own  reflections  to 
notice  the  man's  face.  Taking  a  light,  he 
proceeded  up-stairsas  noiselessly  as  he  could, 
hoping  Clara  was  long  since  asleep,  and 
would  not  hear  him  come  in. 

When  he  entered  the  room  all  was  quiet- 
she  lay  motionless ;  the  fire  had  long  since 
burnt  out,  and  the  whole  room  seemed  dark 
and  silent.  Shading  the  light  with  his  hand, 
he  approached  the  bedside,  and  glanced  at 


PHILIP  EARNSCLiFFE. 


his   wife.     She   was  not  asleep;  but — long 
and  bitterly  though  she  had  wept — the  mark 
of  tears  were  now  carefully  effaced  from  he 
cheeks,  whose   ghastly   whiteness    formed  ; 
striking  contrast  to  his  own  face,  all  flushed 
and  animated.      "  Clara — not  asleep?  " 

"  Not  asleep.  Mr.  Earnscliffe;  yet,  I  be 
lieve,  it  is  past  four  o'clock  !  " 

"  Clara,  I  am  indeed  sorry;  I  was  detain 
ed  by  so  many  old  friends — the  club " 

"Stop,  sir!" — and,  as  she  rose  a  little, 
her  face  grew  exactly  like  that  of  her  father's 
in  its  expression.  "  You  are,  of  course,  a 
liberty  to  choose  your  own  companions,  your 
own  hours ;  stay  out  as  late  as  you  like — 
live  as  you  will — I  am  indifferent  to  it  all 
but  do  not,  at  least,  stoop  to  the  meanness 
of  a  falsehood.  You  have  not  been  at  your 
club  until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  *No, 
allow  me  to  continue," — for  she  saw  the 
indignant  words  were  ready  to  burst  from 
Philip's  lips.  «*  Another  time,  you  will,  per- 
haps, have  the  goodness  to  sleep  in  your 
dressing-room,  after  remaining  out  half  the 
night.  My  health  is  feeble,  and  will  not  ad- 
mit of  my  being  thus  disturbed ;  "  and  she 
turned  away  from  him. 

In  those  few  minutes  she  had  completed 
their  estrangement  for  ever.  Philip  stood 
one  second  irresolute — then  turned,  and, 
without  a  syllable  in  reply,  left  the  room. 

When  he  came  home,  he  felt  that  he  had 
acted  unkindly  towards  Clara,  in  leaving  her 
thus  on  the  first  night  of  their  return  ;  and 
at  the  sight  of  her  pale  face,  kind  words  of 
excuse  were  rising  to  his  lips,  but  her  harsh 
reception  of  him  had  undone  all.  She  had 
accused  him  of  meanness — of  falsehood,  and 
had  herself  made  the  proposal  that  they 
should,  in  future,  occupy  separate  apart- 
ments ;  his  pride  was  galled  to  the  very 
quick.  From  that  moment  he  knew  that  an 
eternal  barrier  was  raised  between  them,  and 
a  bitterer  feeling  than,  in  all  his  young  life, 
he  had  yet  experienced,  arose  in  his  breast. 
He  threw  himself  down  on  his  dressing-room 
sofa,  and  with  a  strange  calmness,  reflected 
what  their  future  existence  would  be.  He 
felt  that  love — even  if  its  shadow  had  ever 
existed  between  his  wife  and  himself— was 
entirely  over  now.  Onlv  four  weeks  ago 
they  had  stood  together  before  God's  altar, 
and  taken  those  solemn  oaths  of  love  and 
truth,  "till  death  should  part  them;"  and 
already  both  had  failed  iti  their  contract. 
Clara  had  openly  acknowledged  her  indiffer- 
ence to  him  that  night,  and  he,  ado/en  times, 
had  liitterly  repented  his  marriage,  and  al- 
ready chafed  impatiently  under  the  yoke.. 

"  I  will  live  fiir  the  world  onlv,  then  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  at  length.  "  She  has  offered  me 
my  life,  apart,  and  my  freedom,  ami  I  accept 
it.  In  the  society  of  Celeste  and  Fridoline, 
I  am  not  likely  to  miss  that  of  my  frigid 
wife  " — and  he  laughed,  but  with  a  forced, 
unnatural  sound. 

With  all  his  faults,  Philip  had,  unfortunate- 


ly for  himself,  a  deep  and  affectionate  heart, 
and  he  felt  an  aching  void  when  he  recalled 
Clara's  harsh,  unforgiving  words,  and  con- 
trasted them  with  old  Miles1*  kindly  greetings 
at  the  break  fast- table,  and  ready  excuses  of 
his  late  hours. 

The  lights,  the  laughter,  the  gay  voices  of 
Celeste's  party  were'  still  whirling  in  his 
brain ;  but  a  look  of  inexpressible  sorrow 
stole  over  his  young  face,  as  he  felt  that  for 
him  the  word  "  home  "  had  henceforth  no 
meaning. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PHILIP  and  his  wife  did  not  meet  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  Clara  afterwards  went  to 
spend  the  day  with  her  mother;  and,  in  the 
afternoon,  Philip  rode  down  to  see  his  uncle. 
It  was  a  fine  winter  day,  the  air  ringing  and 
elastic ;  and,  as  he  cantered  on  at  a  quick 
pace,  his  spirits  rose  under  the  influence  of 
exercise,  and  the  pure,  healthy  atmosphere. 

He  found  Miles  at  home,  occupying  him- 
self, as  usual,  about  his  grounds.  His  face 
grew  radient  when  he  saw  Philip  in  the  dis- 
tance, riding  up  the  long  avenue  which  led  to 
the  house.  He  had  not  hoped  to  see  him  on 
the  first  day  after  his  return,  and  advanced  to 
greet  him  with  as  earnest  a  welcome  as 
though  they  had  not  met  for  years. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you,  Phil,  to  remember 
me  so  soon.  I  wanted  you  especially  to-day. 
That  idiot  of  a  head-gardener  has  positively 
proposed  that  I  should  throw  down  the  old 
wall  by  the  kitchen  garden,  and  extend  the 
shrubbery  as  far  as  the  stables  on  the  other 
side,  shutting  out  the  distant  view  of  the 
river.  You  don't  think  it  would  be  an  im- 
provement?" He  spoke  quickly,  and  Philip 
knew  well  that  he  had  branched  off  into 
another  subject  only  to  conceal  his  pleasure 
at  seeing  him. 

14  We  will  talk  it  all  over,  uncle,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "  for  if  you  will  have  me.  I  intend 
remaining  to-day,  and  dining  with  you.1" 

1  If  I  will  have  you,  boy?  1  am  onlv 
surprised  at  'having  you  so  soon.  As  a  rap- 
turous bridegroom,  I  never  expected  you 

would  remember  me,  However,  I  must  say, 
hat  even  in  your  honeymoon  you  were  not 
orjrrtful  of  me.  You  write  capital  letters, 

Phil." 

A  servant  now  came  up  and  took  his  horse; 
ind  Miles,  linking  his  arm  in  Philip's,  walked 
i!m  oil'  to  see  the  projected  improvements, 
ind  hear  his  opinion  upon  them;  and  thus 
ngaged,  the  short  winter  afternoon  p 
mlv  too  ojiiicklv  to  the  old  man. 

Philip    did     n«>t     ap|>ro\e    entirely    of   the 

gardener's    plan,  hut    proposed    another,    l>v 

vliich  the  shruliliery  could  lie  extended  with- 

nit  interfering  with  his  uncle's    favoriie    view 

f  the  river;   and  he   promised  tu  draw  the 


PHILIP  EARNSCLTFFE. 


29 


plans,  and  come  down  and  superintend  the 
work  himself,  as  soon  as  the  weather  was 
favorable  for  commencing. 

"  I  knew  Duncan  was  wrong,"  said  Miles, 
"  although  I  could  not  improve  upon  his  plan 
mvself.  I  wanted  your  taste  and  quick  eye, 
Phil." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  my  old  gardening 
tastes  now,"  replied  Philip.  "London  will 
henceforth  be  my  home,  with  the  exception 
of  three  months1  shooting  in  the  Highlands, 
or  an  excursion  abroad  every  autumn  ;  and  I 
shall  forget  all  the  familiar  lore  of  planting, 
and  planning,  and  grafting,  that  I  have 
studied  in  this  o'd  garden,  under  Duncan,  so 
many  years.  You  cannot  tell  how  pleasant 
it  seems  for  me  to  return  here,  sir  ;  although 
I  have  been  only  away  four  weeks,  I  feel  like 
a  wanderer  returning  home.11 

'*  And  how  often  shall  I  see  you,  Phil !  " 
asked  Miles,  abruptly,  when  they  sat  together 
in  their  old  places,  after  dinner,  just  as  they 
had  done  for  more  than  fifteen  years.  "  I 
suppose,  with  all  your  grand  friends,  and 
your  parties,  and  your  wife,  I  shall  stand  a 
poor  chance.11 

**  You  do  not  really  mean  that,11  returned 
Philip.  "  As  far  as  engagements  go,  they 
cannot  be  much  more  numerous  now  than 
they  were  before  I  married;  and,  doubtless, 
my  wife  will  be  able  to  spare  me  a  few  hours 
occasionally,  when  I  wish  to  visit  you.11 

Something  in  his  tone,  as  he  said  the  words 
"  my  wife,11  made  his  uncle  look  at  him  more 
closely.  Then  he  noted  that  Philip,  without 
being  either  paler  or  thinner,  or  in  any  way 
altered  in  feature,  looked  already  much  older. 
In  a  few  weeks,  the  indescribable  expression 
of  youth  was  gone,  and  his  face  had  already 
the  look  of  a  man  who  has  lived  and  suffered. 
It  was  a  painful  thought  for  Miles ;  and, 
changing  the  subject,  he  inquired  if  Philip 
was  writing  anything  ? 

"Not  at  present,  uncle.  You  remember 
our  plan  of  going  into  the  country,  for  me  to 
think  and  breathe  before  beginning  another 
book — well,  I  believe  my  new  life  will  work, 
although  in  a  different  manner,  a  somewhat 
similar  result.  After  a  few  months  of  matri- 
mony, I  shall  take  up  my  pen." 

"  Oh  !  where  is  Clara,  to-day?  " 

'*  Clara?  well,  I  believe  she  is  at  home — 
no — I  recollect,  at  Lady  St.  Leger's." 

"Indeed!  Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
my  Yorkshire  property,  Phil  ?  "* 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place.     I  wonder  you 
have  not  been  there  more  frequently  your- 
The  time  of  year  was   unfavorable  for 


self. 


seeing  it  to  advantage;  but  I  was  never 
tired  of  wandering  about  with  my  gun,  over 
the  moors,  or  among  those  wild  hills,  and  in 
the  deep  recesses  of  the  forest,  covered  al- 
though it  all  was  with  snow." 

"  Warm  work  for  a  honeymoon  !  "  mutter- 
ed Miles. 

Then  they  began  speaking  of  other  things  ; 
old  interests  in  which  both  were  connected 


— old  scenes — old  times;  Philip's  literary 
projects  for  the  future.  They  seemed,  by 
tacit  consent,  to  avoid  any  mention  of  the 
present;  and  Philip,  especially,  turned  away 
from  all  subjects  that  bore  upon  his  mar- 
riage, or  the  St.  Legers. 

When  eleven  o'clock  came  his  horse  was 
ordered  round,  and  he  was  preparing  to  wrap 
up  for  his  cold  ride,  when  the  old  butler 
came  in,  and  said  it  was  a  fearful  bad  night 
for  the  young  master  to  ride  up  to  town.  It 
had  thawed,  and  then  frozen  again  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  and  the  ground  was 
like  ice ;  while  the  first  flakes  of  an  ap- 
proaching snow-storm  were  beginning  to  fall. 

"  I  don't  like  taking  the  horses  out  at 
night,  when  lean  help  it,  Phil,  as  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Earnscliffe ;  "  but  I  will  order  the 
carriage  round,  sooner  than  that  you  should 
run  any  risk  of  breaking  the  mare's  knees. 
Marcus  and  Anthony  are  so  steady,  they 
would  not  fall  on  ice  itself.  Besides,  you 
are  not  half  warmly  enough  clad  to  be  ex- 
posed to  such  weather." 

Philip  saw  that  his  uncle  never  even 
thought  of  asking  him  to  stop  all  night ;  and 
he  rather  hesitated  at  making  the  proposal 
himself,  though  he  knew  Clara  would  not  be 
anxious  at  his  absence  (after  the  manner  of 
most  young  wives),  and  he  really  preferred 
remaining  where  he  was,  to  riding  through 

snow-storm. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  uncle,  I  should  not 
like  to  take  out  your  horses ;  and  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  a  night  for  my  skittish  Gulnare. 
If  my  old  bed-room 11 

"  Why,  of  course,  boy.  I  am  only  too 
glad  to  keep  you ;  but  I  thought  your  wife 
would  be  anxious,  and  I  did  not  like  to  pro- 
pose it." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  Clara  will  guess  where  I 
am." 

So  Philip's  old  room  was  prepared  for 
mm ;  and,  as  he  was  tired  after  his  last 
night's  vigil,  he  soon  bade  his  uncle  good 
night,  and  went  off  to  bed. 

"  For  'the  thousandth  time  in  my  life  I 
thank  Heaven  that  I  never  married,"  said 
old  Miles,  devoutly ;  when  the  door  closed 
after  his  nephew.  "  Here  is  another  speei- 
nen  of  wedded  bliss,  and  after  only  four 
weeks1  experience  !  When  I  think  of  all  the 
talk  there  was  of  his  honor  and  her  happi- 
ness for  life,  I  repeat  it,"  he  added,  with  in- 
creasing fervor;  "thank  Heaven,  I  never 
married ! " 

When  Philip  returned  home  at  noon,  next 
Jay,  he  found  Clara  reading  in  the  drawing- 
room.  She  laid  down  her  book  on  his  en- 
ranee,  and  greeted  her  husband  with  the 
same  polite  ceremony  she  would  have  shown 
to  a  stranger.  Her  manner  at  once  pre- 
vented Philip  from  volunteering  any  explana- 
tions of  his  long  absence;  nor  was  she  like- 
y  to  ask  him  any  question  after  their  recent 
scene  on  his  return  from  Celeste's  party. 

"  Are  you   engaged  to-day?     I  have   an 


30 


PHILIP  EAKNTSCLIFFE. 


invitation  for  you  to  accompany  me  to  my 
father's  to  dine." 

The  St.  Legers,  according  to  the  usual 
plan  adopted  by  people  who  are  utterly  ru- 
ined, were  giving  a  whole  series  of  expen- 
sive entertainments.  Philip  hated  all  grand 
dinners ;  and  he  felt  that  those  of  his  pom- 
pous father-in-law  would  now  be  more  than 
ever  distasteful  to  him.  He  took  out  his 
note-book,  determined  not  to  go. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  an  engagement  for  to- 
day ;  it  is  one  of  long  standing — a  dinner 

given  to  B ,  by  some  of  our  members, 

that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  miss." 

Clara's  lip  curled. 

"  The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  C ,  the 

Marquis  of  W ,  Prince  N ,  and  a 

dozen  others,  will  dine  with  us,"  she  said. 

*'  It  is  almost  a  kindness  in  Mr.  Philip 
Earnscliffe  to  give  up  his  place ;  for  the 
dining-room  in  Grafton  Street  is  so  unfortu- 
nately s  mall." 

The  sarcasm  was  meant  to  hide  her  wound- 
ed feelings  ;  but  her  lips  quivered  a  second 
when  she  thought  of  appearing  for  the  first 
time,  as  a  bride,  without  her  husband.  She 
knew  that  a  club  dinner  was  really  no  en- 
gagement, and  that  Philip's  answer  was  but 
a  tacit  acceptance  of  the  liberty  she  had  her- 
self offered  him. 

"How  brilliant  you  will  be!"  he  re- 
marked, sauntering  towards  the  door.  "  We 

shall  have  only  L ,  and  T ,  and 

D ,"  naming  some  of  the  most  distin- 
guished literary  men  in  London.  "  Pray 
remember  for  me  a  few  of  the  Duke  of 

C 's  best  bon  mots,  and  a  little  of  the 

caustic  wisdom  of  the  noble  marquis ;  and, 
in  the  meantime,  au  revoire," 

He  siniljwfc  gaily  as  he  left  her ;  and  she 
felt  that  thSo*  actual  life  had  begun  in  earn- 
est. 

Clara  dined  alone  at  her  father's ;  Philip 
at  his  club.  But,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
he  was  in  high  spirits,  and  enjoyed  the  eve- 
ning immensely ;  while  his  wife  had  a  mar- 
tyrdom to  encounter  in  the  half-pitying  looks 
of  her  dearest  friends,  and  the  still  more  try- 
ing after-dinner  questions  of  her  own  female 
relations.  A  man  feels  no  slur  upon  his 
pride  in  the  world's  thinking  that  he  is  not 
particularly  happy  at  home;  but  to  every 
woman  the  inert!  suspicion  of  being  neglect- 
ed in  In  i-  marriage  is  in  itself  a  humiliation. 

"  W<  II,  my  dearest  Clara,"  said  one  .,f 
her  eon-ins,  as  she  sat  in  her  bridal  satin, 
turning  over  li>tli--ly  the  leavos  of  some  an- 
jni;il- :  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so 
bright  and  well.  But  where  is  Mr.  Farns- 
HifTi-?  Surely  he  mu-t  be  here;  and  yet  I 
have  not  happened  to  see  him." 

"  Philip  wa-  engaged  to  aliterary  dinner," 
answered  Clara,  shortly. 

"  Ah,  yes !  Well,  one  cannot  expect  au- 
thors to  be,  like,  other  men  ;  these  great 
p-nin-.es  are  so  seldom  fond  of  home,  and 
Air.  Earnscliffe  Is  90  young." 


"Your  married  happiness  has  at  least, 
then,  been  spared  the  trial  that  is  in  store  for 
mine,  dear,"  replied  Lady  St.  Leger's  daugh- 
ter, smiling  calmly.  "  If  genius  is  required 
to  make  a  husband  undomestie,  Sir  llarrv  is 
undoubtedly  safe ;  "  and  she  glanced  at  her 
cousin's  husband — a  stupid,  heavy-looking 
young  man,  with  elaborate  whisker?,  and  a 
very  small  head,  but  who,  nevertheless,  had 
not  the  reputation  of  being  excessively  fond 
of  his  wife's  society. 

The  lady  colored  scarlet,  and  Clara  felt 
her  small  triumph.  She  began  talking  with 
more  animation  to  the  people  around  her, 
listened  with  apparent  interest  to  Prince 

X 's  bad  English  and  worse  wit,  and  the 

inane  dullness  of  the  Duke   of  C ,   and 

gradually  her  spirits  rose  with  her  desire  to 
appear  happy.  But,  when  it  was  all  over, 
and  she  was  driving  back  to  her  lonely  home, 
her  cousin's  words  recurred  to  her  in  more 
than  their  first  bitterness.  She  felt  that  num- 
berless similar  remarks  upon  her  appearing 
alone  must  have  been  made  that  evening  ;  that 
at  every  succeeding  party  to  which  she  went 
without  her  husband  these  remarks  would  bo 
confirmed  and  multiplied  ;  and  the  pride  of 
her  nature  revolted  angrily  against  such  an 
existence.  Lady  Clara  forgot  that  this  was 
but  the  commencement  of  the  life  of  liberty 
she  had  herself  offered  to  Philip — that,  in  all 
the  flush  of  his  youth  and  popularity,  her 
harsh  words  had  thrown  him  back  upon  his 
old  world — his  old  associates — merely  be- 
cause her  own  pride  had  revolted  at  one  eve- 
ning's absence. 

•'  And  this  forever!"  she  thought,  as  she 
entered  her  sleeping-room,  and  looked  round 
at  its  costly  luxuries,  which  seemed  to  mock 
their  solitary  possessor.  "Oh,  that  either 
of  us  could  die  !  "  But  people  do  not  die  in 
this  world  because  they  have  made  foolish 
marriages,  or  the  human  race  would  not  be 
long  in  diminishing  sensibly  from  the  face  of 
the  earth;  on  the  contrary,  the  fact  of  their 
having  done  so  generally  appears  to  add 
some  years  to  the  natural  term  of  existence. 
Philip"  and  his  wife  lived  on  just  as  they  would 
have  done  had  they  been  any  happily  assort- 
ed couple  ;  and  weeks  and  months  passed  by, 
while  each  in  its  course  only  deepened  their 
mutual  estrangement,  and  lessened  any  pros- 
pect of  their  re-uniou.  It  had  become  an  es- 
tablished thing  for  Philip  to  BMOCUkte,  as 
usual,  with  all  his  old  bachelor  friends  ami 
lor  Lady  Clara  to  appear  without  him  at  tho 
opera,  or  amoiiLT  her  own  circles:  for,  .since 
his  marriage,  Philip  had  cared  far  I 
halls  and  dinner  parties,  and  more  for  that 
society  in  which  it  was  imp<>ssil>!.-  io  meet  his 
\\  ile  or  her  relations. 

lie  had  conceived  a  feeling  elosely  border- 
ing  upon    hatred     (or   both    the    St.     I. 
Of  the  way  Lady  St.  Le-er  had  l>e;:ui!ed  him 

into  his  marriage  with  her  daughter,  M.rely 

for  his  nude's  wealth,  he  had  no  longer  any 
doubt;  and  for  that  good  deed  he  lelt 


PHILIP  EAENSCLIFFE. 


31 


ly  the  amount  of  gratitude  which  was  natural 

towards  his  mother-in-law ;  while  in  his  sen- 
timents for  her  husband  was  mingled  a  proud 
contempt  that  he  was  scarcely  able  to  con- 
ceal. Lord  St.  Leger  had,  from  the  first, 
treated  him  with  a  sort  of  fawning  affection, 
which  coming  from  such  a  man,  Philip  knew 
could  only  cover  some  latent  design;  and 
very  shortly  after  his  marriage  its  nature  had 
been  revealed.  St.  Leger  tried  to  borrow 
money  of  him.  Philip  affected  the  first  time 
to  treat  it  as  a  mere  joke,  saying  he  had  not 
ten  pounds  of  his  own  in  the  world ;  but 
when  a  few  days  having  elapsed,  St.  Leger 
again  assailed  him — Philip  having  in  the 
meantime  attained  his  majority  —  and  en- 
deavored, with  a  great  deal  of  soft  plausi- 
bility, to  induce  him  to  endorse  some  bills 
(knowing  well  that  any  paper  bearing  the 
signature  of  Miles  Earnscliffe's  heir  would 
be  readily  discounted  by  those  among  the 
fraternity  of  Hebrew  money-lenders  who  al- 
ready looked  with  suspicion  upon  his  own 
noble  autograph),  Philip  turned  away  from 
him  with  disgust. 

"  You  are  altogether  mistaken  in  me,  Lord 
St.  Leger,"  he  replied,  haughtily.  *'  I  have 
no  property  whatever  of  my  own  ;  and  it  is, 
therefore,  impossible  for  me  to  become  secu- 
rity for  others.  The  allowance  made  me 
since  my  marriage,  by  my  uncle — although  a 
most  liberal  one — is  not  more  than  sufficient 
for  my  own  use.  I  shall  consider  it  right  to 
give  it  up  entirely  when  I  am  enabled  to  live 
upon  the  fruits  of  my  own  exertions ;  and, 
in  the  meantime.  I  must  entreat  of  you  not 
to  place  me  in  the  painful  position  of  having 
to  refuse  you  again.1' 

When  he  was  stern,  Philip's  face  could  as- 
sume an  expression  not  unlike  that  of  Miles  ; 
and  in  his  dark  eye  and  compressed  lip,  St. 
Leger  read  a  cold,  unalterable  determination. 
He  was  foiled  a  second  time  by  the  nephew, 
as  he  had  already  been  by  the  uncle ;  and, 
from  that  day  forth,  made  no  more  affection- 
ate demonstrations  to  his  son-in-law.  They 
detested  each  other  mutually. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

FROM  his  wife's  relations,  and  the  world 
in  which  they  moved,  Philip  turned  with  un- 
disguised pleasure  to  his  artist  friends,  and 
the  easy,  unrestrained  intercourse  of  their 
life.  Especially  between  himself  and  little 
Fridoline,  a  feeling  of  friendship  had  of  late 
arisen  that  soon  bordered  upon  intimacy. 

The  world  in  general  scoffs  at  the  posibil- 
ity  of  mere  friendship  between  a  man  of 
Philip's  age  and  a  young  girl,  especially  if, 
like  poor  Fridoline,  she  chance  to  be  an  ac- 
tress ;  and,  in  the  generality  of  cases,  the 
world  would  be  right.  But  Fridoliue  was  so 


entirely  apart  from  everybody  else,  in  her  odd, 
secluded  life,  and  undisguised  avo\val  of  her 
preference,  that  even  she  was  allowed  to 
have  Earnscliffe  for  a  friend,  and  no  tongue 
be  found  to  whisper  an  idle  word  against 
her.  He  constantly  met  her  at  rehearsal  of 
a  morning,  and  when  the  weather  was  fine, 
and  Fridoline  walked,  would  accompany  her 
home.  She  lived  in  a  cottage  on  the  very 
extremity  of  Harnpstead  Heath,  an  extreme- 
ly inconvenient  distance  from  the  theatre, 
but  which  she  had  chosen  from  her  love  for 
the  country,  and  because  it  was  away  from 
the  noise  and  smoke  of  London.  She  could 
walk  any  distance  without  fatigue,  and  sel- 
dom took  a  cab  in  the  daytime,  when  the 
weather  was  at  all  fine.  One  day,  after  the 
rehearsal  of  a  new  and  difficult  part,  of  a 
more  tragic  nature  than  she  generally  per- 
formed, Philip  volunteered  his  escort  home, 
and  was,  as  usual,  accepted.  She  was  flush- 
ed when  they  left  the  theatre,  but  by  the  time 
the  interminable  streets  were  traversed,  and 
they  had  gained  the  open  heath,  her  cheeks 
became  very  pale,  while  her  step  flagged 
and  she  looked  wearied.  Some  felled  trees 
lay  by  the  road-side,  and  Philip  proposed 
she  should  sit  down  and  rest  awhile.  She 
did  so  silently,  and  he  took  a  place  by  her 
side.  It  was  a  sweet,  breezy  day  early  in 
June,  and  the  country  was  covered  with  ten- 
der green.  A  few  fleecy  clouds  flitted  slow- 
ly over  the  blue  sky ;  the  swallows,  newly 
returned,  wheeled  round  in  playful  circuits, 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  vio- 
lets from  a  neighboring  garden,  mixed  with 
the  hawthorn-blossoms  of  the  hedges. 

"The  world  is  fair,"  said  Fridoline  in  a 
low  voice,  and  as  if  addressing  herself  more 
than  her  companion,  "  but  stained  and  blot- 
ted out  with  sin  !  " 

"  Of  which  you,  at  least,  have  known  lit- 
tle," added  Philip  gently. 

"  Of  which  I  have  known  much,"  she  re- 
plied, turning  round  her  wearied  face  to  his. 
"  Much," — she  went  on,  almost  vehemently 
— "  more  than  any  other  girl  of  my  age ;  or, 
at  least,  I  have  felt  it  more  than  any  other 
can  have  done — have  had  it  crushed  down  in 
all  its  hideousness  upon  myself;  ay  !  upon  my 
own  flesh  and  blood — until  the  whole  earth 
has  seemed  to  me  a  black  and  festering  mass 
of  corruption " 

"How  old  are  you,  Fridoline?"  interrupt- 
ed Philip,  with  a  feeling  almost  of  horror  at 
the  girl's  unnatural  manner. 

"  Nineteen,"  she  replied ;  "  and  to-day  ia 
my  birthday." 

'Philip  took  her  hand,  touched  at  the  hum- 
ble, mournful  tone  of  her  voice,  and  pressed 
it,  as  he  wished  her  some  kindly  birthday 
congratulations.  She  scarcely  heeded  him, 
though  she  tried  to  smile. 

"  Nineteen,"  she  went  on  ;  "  and  to  know 
all  that  I  do !  I  cannot  believe  I  am  so 
young.  It  is  only  four  years  since  I  woke 
from  my  childhood,  and  knew  what  I  was, 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


and  the  terrible  darkness  of  my  life  ?  Oh, 
come  away !  "  —  she  rose  hastily,  and  as 
though  suddenly  recollecting  that  she  was 
thinking  aloud — "  come  home  !  I  have  need 
of  my  home  and  rest. 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  for  she  trembled 
violently,  and  they  walked  on  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  way  in  silence.  Philip  felt 
that,  in  her  excited  state,  it  was  useless  for 
him,  ignorant  as  he  was  of  her  former  his- 
tory, to  attempt  anything  like  consolation  ; 
and  Fridoline,  pale  and  agitated,  never 
opened  her  lips.  She  seemed  scarcely  con- 
scious that  she  was  not  alone. 

They  stopped  before  a  pretty  cottage — one 
of  the  old  country  cottages  that,  a  few  years 
ago,  were  still  to  be  found  on  Hampstead 
Heath ;  this  was  Fridoline's  home.  Roses 
and  creepers  grew  almost  entirely  over  the 
front,  and  covered  the  little  entrance  porch 
of  rustic  wood,  where,  happy  in  the  sun,  lay 
a  rough,  wiry  terrier.  He  started  np  with 
an  angry  snap  at  his  own  sleepiness,  when  he 
heard  approaching  steps,  but  bounded  for- 
ward the  moment  he  saw  his  mistress.  She 
stooped  to  pat  him,  and  the  creature  looked 
up  into  her  face  with  an  expression  of  such 
love  as,  for  the  first  time,  brought  tears  into 
her  eyes. 

"  You  are  glad  to  see  me,  poor  old  Karl !  " 
said  Fridoline ;  and  she  entered  the  little 
garden . 

Philip  had  before  accompanied  her  to  the 
gate,  but  she  had  never  invited  him  further, 
so  he  prepared  now  to  take  his  leave. 

"No;  come  in!"  she  cried.  "You 
shall  be  my  birthday  guest." 

Her  manner  was  so  earnest,  that  Philip 
saw  she  really  wished  it,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether towards  the  house. 

Karl  looked  with  extreme  suspicion  at 
the  first  male  intruder  he  had  ever  seen  in 
his  mistress's  domains ;  and,  as  he  followed 
them  up  the  path,  suddenly  relieved  him- 
self of  these  feeling  by  giving  an  angry 
bark,  and  seizing  the  skirts  of  Philip's  coat 
in  his  teeth,  shaking  the  cloth  from  side  to 
side  with  great  ferocity.  As  he  did  so,  he 
was  almost  lifted  from  the  ground,  and  his 
hind  feet  scratched  angrily  in  the  gravel. 
Philip  naturally  turned  at  the  unexpected 
assault,  so  did  Fridoline ;  and,  in  a  second, 
by  one  of  those  instantaneous  transitions  pe- 
culiar to  her  temperament,  the  sense  of  the 
ludicrous  mastered  every  other  feeling.  The 
expression  of  old  Karl,  snarling  and  scratch- 
ing, and  rolling  his  .sharp  ryes  with  rage,  yet 
still  holding  fust,  while,  Philip,  with  great 
dignity,  attempted  in  vain  to  shake  him  oil', 
was  too  much  for  little  Fridoline,  although 
her  eyes  wen;  actually  sufl'iisi-d  with  tears  at, 
tht-  moment,  and  she  burst  into  peals  of 
laughter;  not  one  merely,  but.  peal  after 
peal  of  a  clear,  ringing,"  childish  laughter, 
that  at  length  brought  the-  solitary  maid-ser- 
vant to  the  door,  to  sec.  what  it  was  all  about. 
She  was  a  dark,  foreign-looking  woman  of 


middle,  age,  and  harsh  features  ;  and  her  ex- 
pression was  not  pleasant  on  seeing  Philip. 
However,  when  she  perceived  how  matters 
stood,  she  darted  out  at  once  to  his  relief, 
and  by  dint  of  pulling  and  threats,  and,  at 
length,  a  few  vigorous  blows,  Karl  was  mas- 
tered, and  carried  off,  to  vent  his  remaining 
fury  in  captivity.  Little  Fridoline  only 
laughed  the  more  at  this  conclusion  of  the 
contest,  and  when,  at  length,  she  was  able  to 
speak,  and  apologise  to  Philip  for  Karl's  in- 
hospitable mode  of  welcome,  her  usual 
spirits  had  completely  returned,  and  every 
trace  of  emotion  disappeared  from  her  sun- 
ny face. 

"  We  are  so  unused  to  visitors  in  my  mk- 
nage"  she  said,  "  that  you  must  forgive  poor 
Karl.  He  looks  upon  all  intruders  as  his 
natural  enemies ;  and  I  see  I  must  be  more 
careful  in  introducing  you  to  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  household,  for  I  have  two  large 
cats  and  a  tame  hawk,  who  could  all  be  for- 
midable if  they  chose." 

"  You  are  fond  of  pets,  Fridoline." 

"  Yes,  I  am  fond  of  Karl,  and  he  loves  rne 
— the  others  are  my  amusement.  It  makes 
my  greatest  distraction  to  collect  the  animals 
together,  and  watch  them,  when  my  head 
aches  after  learning  some  long  role.  The 
cats  are  friends  in  appearance,  but  not  in  re- 
ality, except  as  regards  their  hatred  to  Karl — 
principle,  perhaps,  of  many  a  human  alliance  ; 
and  it  does  me  good  to  see  the  hearty  spite 
with  which  they  occasionally  give  vent  to  their 
feelings,  and  claw  each  other's  ears.  Karl 
looks  down  upon  them  with  sovereign  con- 
tempt, as  if  aware  of  his  power ;  but  in  an- 
other quarter,  he  is  a  mere  hen-pecked  cow- 
ard. My  hawk,  Old  Bess — there  she  is, 
making  rushes  after  worms  on  the  grass-plot 
— is  his  household  virago;  and,  by  making 
unexpected  descents  on  him  from  behind  dark 
bushes  in  the  garden,  and  peering  fiercely 
down  and  hissing  from  impossible  places 
when  he  thinks  he  is  just  going  to  have  a 
quiet,  noonday  nap,  makes  his  life  a  constant 
uneasy  watch.  The  canaries  are,  compared 
with  the  others,  stupid  things ;  but  even  their 
rage,  when  the  sparrows  dare  to  come  near 
their  cage  in  the  garden,  and  pick  up  their 
discarded  dainties,  is  almost  human.11 

And  all  this  little  nonsense,  in  Fi  idoline's 
foreign  Fjiglish,  and  told  in  her  own  lively 
way,  sounded  pretty.  She  led  Philip  into 
her  small  drawing-room,  and  the  simple, 
good  taste  of  its  appearance  struck  him  at 
once,  compared  to  the  glittering  grandeur 
with  which  Celeste,  like  most  act: 
loved  to  be.  surrounded.  The  furniture  was 
all  in  the  cottage  style,  and  the  curtains  of 
plain  white  muslin;  but,  altogether,  it  had 
the  air  of  a  room  inhabited  by  some  young 
and  innocent  girl.  A  small  piano  Mood 
open;  work,  and  books  that  looked  well 
read,  lay  on  the  table;  and  bouquet^  of  fresh 

(lower-    were   rvrrvwh' 

"  Poor  Hulila  brought  me  all  these  flow- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


33 


ers  for  my  birthday,"  said  Fridoline,  "  and 
told  me,  as  she  had  no  taste,  I  must  arrange 
them  for  myself.  She  loves  me  as  her  own 
child,  and  has  been  with  me  all  my  life." 

It  was  the  first  time  Fridoline  had  ever 
made  so  distinct  an  admission  of  belonging 
to  humanity,  and  Philip  thought  he  might  im- 
prove upon  the  opportunity. 

"  Your  servant  does  not  look  English,  from 
the  slight  glimpse  I  had  of  her,"  he  remark- 
ed. 

"  No,  Mr.  Earnscliffe,"  said  Fridoline,  sli- 
ly,  "she  is  not;  neither  is  Hulda  an  Eng- 
lish name.1' 

"  Her  face  is  not  French." 

"  She  is  not  a  Frenchwoman." 

"Nor  German?  " 

"  Nor  German,  nor  Danish,  nor  Swedish." 

He  was  silent.  Fridoline1s  eyes  laughed, 
though  her  lips  did  not. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  house?  "  she 
asked. 

"  It  is  a  charming  little  place  for  the  sum- 
mer. How  do  you  like  it  in  winter,  when 
the  snow  is  on  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  is  not  the  question.  You 
should  say,  rather,  in  those  long  months  of 
mild,  drizzling  rain  which  make  up  your 
English  winters.  Well,  I  must  confess,  it  is 
not  so  pleasant  then  as  in  June,  though  I  am 
always  too  occupied  to  be  dull.  When  we  do 
have  fine,  hard  frost  and  bright  sun,  and  the 
trees  and  bushes  bend  under  their  load  of 
snow,  I  love  it!"  (she  looked  animated)  — 
"  I  wish  it  would  last  for  months.  It  re- 
minds me  of  our  real,  long,  glorious  north- 
ern winters "  Here  she  stopped  short, 

and  looked  rather  afraid  she  was  going  too 
far. 

"Long,  glorious  winters!"  said  Philip; 
"  but  not  those  of  France  or  Germany. 
Fridoline,  I  shall  find  out  your  secret  soon!" 

She  rose  laughing,  and  cried,  "  I  know 
your  thoughts  well  ;  but  I  shall  have  no  pity 
upon  your  curiosity;  and,  to  punish  you", 
you  shall  remain  alone  while  I  take  off  my 
bonnet,  and  ease  Hulda's  mind  as  to  your  ap- 
pearance in  my  house,  for  I  am  afraid,  at 
present,  she  is  rather  of  Karl's  way  of  think- 
ing on  the  subject." 

When  Fridoline  had  left  the  room,  Philip 
approached  the  table,  and  began  to  examine 
the  numerous  and  well-read  books,  in  all  lan- 
guages, that  were  scattered  there.  With  the 
exception  of,a  few  volumes  of  poetry — a 
Dante,  Goethe's  "Faust,"  some  of  OehU-n 
Schlager's  smaller  poems,  and  a  volume  of 
Shakspeare — all  the  books  were  of  an  ab- 
stract and  somewhat  gloomy  nature.  No 
works  of  lighter  literature,  no  modern  fic- 
tions, such  as  the  generality  of  girls  of  her 
age  would  delight  in,  were  there  ;  but  abun- 
dance of  subtle  philosophy  upon  human  na- 
ture, and  devotional  books  of  the  sternest, 
most  austere  description,  such  as  might  be 
fittingly  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  criminal 
•tained.  with  the  blackest  guilt.  She  seemed 
3 


to  have  chosen  all  that  bore  on  the  darker 
side  of  our  existence,  or  that  analysed  deeply 
the  enigma  of  the  human  heart  under  the  in- 
fluence of  sin,  as  though  her  young  life  could 
already  need  the  solution  which  few  care  to 
seek  for  till  they  have  themselves  tasted  ful- 
ly of  the  bitter-after  fruits  of  passion. 

One  large  book  seemed  particularly  well 
read,  and  Philip  opened  it.  It  was  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  all  the  other — the  illustrated 
edition,  in  German,  of  "  Grimm's  Fairy 
Tales."  He  turned  over  the  pages  so  loved  in 
his  own  childhood  ;  saw  Hans  once  more,  sit- 
ting under  the  rock  with  a  lump  of  gold  as  big 
as  his  head  ;  the  musicians  of  Bremen  defend- 
ing, with  their  unearthly  music,  the  lonely 
house  against  the  robbers ;  the  happy  eleves 
trying  on  their  nether  garments,  made  by 
the  shoemaker's  grateful  wife  ;  the  mayor  and 
burgomaster  jumping  into  the  pond  after  the 
reflection  of  the  Clouds,  which  they  take  for 
flocks  of  sheep ;  and  at  last  Philip  grew  so 
interested  that  he  seated  himself,  and  began 
the  perusal  of  some  of  his  old  friends  with 
much  zest. 

In  the  meantime  Fridoline  had  changed 
the  dark  morning-dress,  in  which  she  always 
went  to  rehearsal,  for  a  little  white  muslin 
frock,  and  re-arranged  her  luxuriant  golden 
hair.  Then  she  ran  off  to  Hulda,  in  the 
kitchen,  and  explained  to  her  that  Mr.,Earns- 
cliffe  was  to  be  looked  upon  with  no  mis- 
trust, being  a  poet,  and  unlike  other  men, 
and  a  very  kind  friend  of  her  own ;  during 
all  of  which  Hulda  continued  her  cooking 
with  great  sternness  of  expression,  and  did 
not  look  the  least  convinced  in  her  own  mind. 
Then  Fridoline  added,  "  And  he  will  stay  to 
dine  with  me,  dear  Hulda ;  so  I  shall  have  a 
guest  on  my  birthday,  and  you  must  give  us 
one  of  your  best  dinners." 

After  this  she  went  out  with  Karl,  whose 
temper  was  somewhat  restored,  into  the  gai> 
den,  to  look  after  a  very  early  moss-rose  she 
had  beenrwatehing  for  some  days  past.  The, 
bud  had  just  half-broken  into  blossom  ;  and 
Fridoline  plucked  it,  and  ran  up  to  the  glas* 
door  which  led  from  the  garden  into  her  sit- 
ting-room. She  saw  Philip  reading,  anc^ 
entering  noiselessly,  stole  up,  and  leant  over 
his  shoulder,  before  he  was  aware  of  her 
presence. 

"Oh,  wise  philosopher!."  she  cried,  sud- 
denly. "With  a  table  full  of  deep  aii'l 
subtle  works,  I  find  you  poring  over  Hans, 
and  Gretchen." 

"  Well,"  returned  Philip^.  "  the- wonder  i.% 
not  that  I  should  read  them,  but  that  a  per* 
son  like  Fridoline  should  permit  such  child- 
ish stories  to.  repose  among  her  sage  books." 

Her  face  grew  grave  directly. 

"  It  is  strange  that  I  should  like  anything 
belonging  to  the  innocence  of  children,"  she 
answered;  "  but,  though  I  cannot  care  for 
novels,  it  delights  me  to  read  those  wild 
German  stories  that  I  have  known  all  my 
life.  They  have  the  same  effect  upon  me  as 


34 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


my  animals ;  they  take  me  altogether  from 
the  world,  and  the  people  I  belong  to  ;  while 
novels  are  still  mitnie  representations  of  our 
existence — only  seen  through  falsely-colored 
glasses.  No !  if  I  read  of  human  beings 
and  human  hearts,  let  me  study  them  as  they 
are,  in  their  stern,  unaltered  reality;  and 
then,  when  I  want  amusement,  turn  to  the 
honest  love  of  Karl,  and  the  innocent  vices 
of  the  cats,  or  the  dwarfs  and  fairies  of  old 
Grimm.11 

44  What  an  early  rose-bud,  Fridoline  !  " 

"It  is  for  you."  She  placed  it  in  his 
button-hole.  "  For  two  birthdays  I  have 
had  no  companion  but  Hulda,  and  I  am  so 
glad,  to  see  you  here  to-day,  and  to  offer  even 
a  poor  flower  to  some  one  who  will  accept  it 
on  my  birthday.11 

44  And  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you,  Frido- 
line," replied  Philip.  44  You  should  receive, 
not  give,  presents  on  your  birthday." 

44  You  can  give  me  something  I  should 
like,"  she  returned.  4<  Write  me  a  few  lines 
— not  like  those  you  write  to  Celeste,  full  of 
compliments  and  sentiments  you  don't  feel — 
but  the  simple  expression  of  some  feeling 
connected  with  this  sweet  June  day — some- 
thing that  I  can  keep  to  remind  me  of  my 
nineteenth  birthday,  in  England,  when  I  have 
returned  to  my  own  country." 

44  It  is  difficult  to  write  lines,  addressed 
'  To  Fridoline,  on  her  nineteenth  birthday,1 
without  being  complimentary,"  Philip  an- 
swered, looking  up  into  her  earnest  face  as 
she  leaned  over  him  ;  44  however,  I  will  try. 
But  you  must  promise  not  to  look  at  me  as  I 
write,  or  4  those  deep,  dark  eyes 1  will  be 
sure  to  be  introduced,  much  to  your  indigna- 
tion." 

The  slightest  flush  rose  in  Fridoline1s 
cheek  as  she  stepped  back  from  his  side ; 
and,  seating  herself  by  her  work-table,  she 
took  up  some  half-finished  embroidery  that 
lay  there.  But,  as  Philip  began  to  write, 
the  work  fell  from  her  fingers,  and  she  watch- 
ed him  intently  until  he  finished — watched 
his  mobile  features,  that  lit  up  with  every 
rapidly-succeeding  image  of  his  own  fancy — 
his  high,  fair  brow — his  careless,  poet-like 
attitude,;  and  thought — what  did  poor  little 
Fridoline  think  ? 

"It  is  done,  Fridoline ;  but  I  am  afraid 
j^ou  will  not  like  the  lines.  They  arc  very 
common-place,  after  all.  Shall  I  read  them  ?  " 

"No;  I  would  rather  read  them  for  iny- 
•elf." 

Sin-  took  the  paper,  and,  turning  towards 
the  window,  read  the  contents  eagerly. 
Could  1'hilip  have  seen  her  face,  he  would 
lia\e  <ii-i-o\iTcd  a  .-light  .-hade,  of  disappoint- 
ment, when  she  finished;  however,  she  turu- 
«-d  quickly  towards  him  again,  and  said,  with 
a  .-mile,  "  the  lines  were  beautifully  written, 
and  that  she  should  value  them  much,"  plac- 
ing them,  as  she  spoke,  in  a  writing-'' 
the  table. 


4 'And  the  sentiment,"  said  Earnscliffe — • 
4'  does  that  not  please  yon  ?  " 

44  Yes — only  you  alluded  to  my  theatrical 
success — you  could  not,  even  for  to-day,  for- 
get that  I  am  an  actress.  Come  out.  "now," 
she  added,  44  and  see  the  extent  of  my  wide 
domain.  It  is  too  fine  to  remain  "within 
doors." 

They  went  out  together  into  the  garden, 
and  sat  down  under  a  pink  hawthorn  in  full 
flower  on  the  little  grass-plot.  Fridoline's 
borders  were  redolent  of  early  sweets,  for 
Hulda  was  a  good  gardener;  and,  with  di- 
rections from  her  mistress,  kept  everything 
in  perfect  order.  She  was  a  remarkably 
plain  woman,  and  had  always  had  an  extreme 
dislike  for  the  stronger  sex,  even  in  her  own 
land ;  and  this  feeling,  when  extended  to 
Englishmen,  amounted  to  open  enmity,  that 
afforded  Fridoline  much  amusement.  So  no 
man  was  ever  admitted  upon  the  premises, 
except  for  those  needful  operations  of  cutting 
and  pruning,  which  were  beyond  Hulda's 
powers  ;  and,  in  the  early  summer  mornings, 
she  even  rose  and  mowed  the  lawn,  to  the 
great  risk  of  cutting  off  her  own  feet,  and 
the  unbounded  pleasure  of  all  the  small  boys 
who  gathered  round  the  gate,  however  early 
she  began,  and,  thrusting  their  snubby  noses 
through  the  bars,  made  remarks  detrimental 
to  the  44  blessed  old .  furriner's  "  science. 

There  was  a  hay-field  close  to  the  garden  ; 
the  scent  of  the  new-cut  hay  mingled  pleas- 
antly with  that  of  the  flowers,  and  Philip  and 
Fridoline  sat  talking  in  the  fresh  air  until 
three  'oclock,  when  Hulda  appeared  and 
waved  her  hand  at  the  porch  ;  this  Fridoline 
understood  to  be  a  signal  for  dinner,  and 
they  entered.  Philip  did  ample  justice  to 
the  simple  meal,  and  never  enjoyed  a  grand 
dinner  party  half  as  much  as  his  Me-a-tete 
with  Fridoline,  who  chatted  and  laughed 
merrily,  but  did  the  small  honors  as  grace- 
fully as  though  she  were  a  countess.  When 
dinner  was  nearly  over  she  said — "  I  am 
sure  Hulda  must  have  taken  a  fancy  to  you, 
for  she  has  given  us  two  of  our  national 
•  lishcs,  and  nothing  is  a  stronger  mark  of 
favor." 

44  I  should  think  the  attention  was  more 
probably  paid  to  your  birthday  than  to  your 
visitor,""  returned  Philip.  "Tin-  lc\v -lances 
I  have  caught  her  giving  me  have  certainly 
not  been  loving  ones.  It  is  a  pity  she  un- 
derstands so  little  Knglish,  as  I  have  no  op- 
portunity of  paying  her  any  compliments  on 
her  excellent  dinner." 

Fridoline  conveyed  this  -|ieeeh  to  I  Hilda 
in  a  whisper,  whereupon,  without  any  reply, 
she  walked  stilllv  out  of  the  mom,  .-hutting 
the  door  very  loudly  in  her  retreat. 

"  She  is  quite  delighted,"  said  her  mis- 
tress,  44  but  that  is  her  peculiar  mode  of 
showing  it  ;  I  know  her  so  well,  pour  crea- 
ture !  Is  il  not  strange  how  any  one  can  live 
ill  a  country  for  months  and  mouths,  as  she 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


35 


has  done,  without  learning  to  speak?  T 
could  make  myself  understood  when  I  had 
been  in  England  six  weeks. 

"  But  every  one  has  not  the  talent  of  little 
Fridoline " 

"  Fi  done  !  Monsieur  Earnscliffo.  You 
must  bethinking  of  Celeste,  or  Miss  Elmslie, 
to-day,  or  you  would  not  pay  compliments. 
You  forget  you  are  talking  to  me/1 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,  mademoiselle." 

A  stranger  might  have  thought  this  long 
d°y,  spent  in  each  other's  society,  rather  a 
dangerous  one  for  them  both;  but  Philip, 
much  as  he  admired  and  was  interested  in 
Fridoline,  could  never  entertain  anvthing 
but  a  friendly  feeling  towards  this  wild,  un- 
certain little  being,  so  mlike  all  other  wo- 
men ;  and  every  thought  of  hers  was  too 
strained  upon  one  deeply-engrossing  object, 
for  her  to  run  any  risk  from  human  love.  At 
least,  Fridoline  believed  so. 

"  I  have  still  another  room  to  show  you," 
she  said,  after  dinner.  "  This  one  has  a 
western  aspect,  and  when  the  summer  is 
over,  it  is  cold  and  dark  in  the  morning;  so 
I  have  fitted  up  one  up-stairs  for  my  winter 
study,  where  the  early  light  shines  fuller, 
and  I  have  a  pleasant  view  over  the  com- 
mon." 

She  led  the  way  up  the  old-fashioned  stair- 
case, warning  Philip  to  beware  of  the  pro- 
jecting beams  over  head,  and  showed  him 
into  her  winter  study.  It  was  almost  a  pret- 
tier room  than  the  lower  one — more  light 
and  cheerful ;  and  though  very  plainly  fur- 
nished, made  artist-like  by  some  plaster  casts 
from  the  antique,  and  one  or  two  excellent 
engravings  on  the  walls.  Philip  asked,  as 
he  examined  them,  if  she  was  fond  of  pic- 
tures. 

"  I  love  them  beyond  everything,"  she 
replied.  "  Painting  is  the  noblest  branch  of 
art  after  all,  and  must  be  by  far  the  sweetest 
to  follow.  Authors  must  toil  with  pen  and 
paper,  and  bring  out  their  glowing  thoughts 
through  the  cold  medium  of  words,  which, 
you  know,  are  not  understood  by  everybody  ; 
untaught  people  and  little  children,  for  m- 
stance,  the  two  classes  I  should  like  best  to 
please,  only  see  that  books  are  printed  pa- 
per. But  the  painter's  words  are  like  those 
of  God :  the  sky,  and  flowers,  and  trees ; 
and  he  speaks  to  all.  How  could  the  touch- 
ing truths  of  religion  ever  have  been  realised 
to  the  common  people  before  printing  was 
invented,  but  for  painting?  The  abstract 
idea  of  Christ  as  a  teacher,  delivering  les- 
sons of  wisdom  and  morality,  could  never 
have  been  brought  home  to  them ;  but  they 
saw  Him  ministering  to  the  poor — healing 
the  sick — giving  life  to  the  dead ;  saw  Him 
suffering — crowned  with  thorns — dying  on 
the  cross ;  and  they  loved  and  believed." 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  rapid  manner ;  but 
her  eye  dilated,  and  Philip  saw  that  it  was  a 

vorite  subject. 


"  Poets  and  painters  each  have  the  same 
high  mission,"  he  answered:  "to  embody 
those  true  and  beautiful  thoughts  that  lie  in 
the  hearts  of  most  men  ;  but  which  they  re- 
quire another,  peculiarly  gifted,  to  express 
for  them." 

"Yes;  but  poets  have  more  power  ot 
making  you  feel  with  their  feelings,  and  see 
with  their  senses,  than  painters,  and  that  is 
why  I  prefer  painting.  A  sunset  of  Claude's, 
a  Madonna  of  Raphael's,  is  only  a  faithful 
representation  of  the  highest  earthly  beauty, 
from  which  each  mind  may  derive  its  own 
unassisted  delight,  as  it  would  do  from  Na- 
ture herself." 

"I  am  convinced,"  said  Philip,  "that 
painters  themselves  are  the  happiest  of  men. 
Writers  of  all  kinds,  or,  at  least,  the  large 
majority  of  them,  soon  grow  hardened  by 
rough  contact  with  the  world,  harsh  criti- 
cism, and  literary  jealousies.  But  an  artist 
has  little  of  such  discipline ;  he  dwells 
abroad  with  Nature,  or  in  his  studio  with 
Art,  hanging  over  his  darling  picture  with 
the  love  of  a  mother  over  her  first-born, 
with  far  tenderer  feelings  than  an  author 
ever  felt  for  the  blurred,  unsightly  manuscript 
he  is  committing  .to  the  printer.  His  work 
is  so  exclusively  the  painter's  own ;  he  has 
watched  it  from  the  first  moment  of  its  con- 
ception, through  all  the  dawning  shades  of 
development,  until  its  perfection ;  and  he 
feels  that  that  individual  picture  will  exist 
and  speak  of  him  long  after  the  hand  that 
painted  it  is  cold.  And  however  poor  the 
work,  this  golden  delusion  is  the  same.  No 
disappointment,  no  poverty,  ever  mars  the 
love  of  the  worst  painter  for  his  pictures. 
But  your  own  art,  Fridoline,"  he  added, 
gently ;  "  let  us  speak  of  that  also." 

"Mine!"  she  answered,  mournfully; 
"  oh  !  you  know  well  that  the  greatest  singers 
have  only  their  one  '  crowded  hour  of  glorious 
life,'  and  are  then  forgotten  ;  while  all  other 
genius  leaves  some  permanent  creation  for  the 
future.  An  artist,  who  can  live  only  through 
his  physical  powers,  has  no  future  existence 
— our  memory  dies  quicker  than  the  flowers 
flung  at  our  feet  on  a  farewell-night.  Mine 
is  the  lowest  art  of  all.  I  doubt  if  the  first 
actor  who  ever  lived,  real!}'  ennobled  human 
nature,  or  raised  one  fallen  spirit  through  his 
genius.  Everything  about  the  stage  is  so 
false ;  the  light  and  the  paint,  and  the  actors 
themselves,  who  are  scarcely  off  the  scene 
before  they  sink  down  again  from  the  noblest 
character  into  their  own  debased  lives.  Why, 
the  very  air  of  the  theatre  has  something  un- 
natural in  it — an  association  of  mid-day 
darkness  and  tinsel  splendor  at  night,  that  I 
can  never  shake  off.  Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Earnscliffe,"  she  went  on,  wandering  from  the 
original  subject,  "  I  never  seem  to  breathe 
after  rehearsal  or  performance,  till  I  feel  my- 
self again  in  the  fresh  air  of  the  country  ?  " 

"  You  have  chosen  a  pleasant  spot,"  said 


36 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


Philip,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  open  win- 
dow ;  •*  one  well  suited  to  your  simple  natural 
tastes." 

She  took  a  low  stool  and  placed  herself 
near  him.  «•  Are  you  perfectly  happy  ?  "  she 
inquired,  at  length,  after  a  pause,  and  lifting 
her  eyes  earnestly  to  his  face. 

"  Is  any  one  so  ?  "  he  replied,  while  a  slight 
shade  crossed  his  features.  "  I  am  certainly 
not  less  happy  than  the  generality  of  men. 
I  have  plenty  of  interest  in  life ;  I  enjoy 
society — have  ambition  to  fulfil — bright  pros- 
pects for  the  future.1' 

Fridoline  shook  her  head.  She  had  heard 
rumors  of  Philip's  hasty,  ill-assorted  mar- 
riage, and  his  reply  told  iier  that  his  pleasures 
were  not  in  his  home." 

"  1  see,"  she  remarked,  and  asked  no  more 
questions.  They  went  on  quietly  conversing 
upon  subjects  unconnected  with  themselves, 
and,  at  last,  among  other  names,  that  of 
Celeste  was  mentioned. 

"  Poor  Celeste  !  "  said  Fridoline. 

"  Why  do  you  thus  pity  her?"  returned 
Philip. 

*'  She  seems  so  perfectly  contented — so 
really  happy  in  her  life.  You  smile  at  my 
reason,  but  you  do  not  know  Celeste  as  I  do. 
When  I  was  utterly  friendless  in  London,  I 
was  taken  ill,  a  few  days  after  my  first  ap- 
pearance, with  an  inflammation  on  the  chest 
— the  effect,  I  suppose,  of  excitement  and 
exposure  to  night  air.  Celeste  heard  I  was 
alone,  and  visited  and  nursed  me,  and  gave 
up  her  gay  parties  to  make  my  sick-room 
cheerful.  Then  I  found  out  what  a  good 
heart  and  kindly  feeling  lie  beneath  all  her 
little  false  affections  ;  and  I  am  sorry  now  to 
t'uink  that  Celeste  should,  after  all,  be  so  per- 
fectly contented  with  the  life  of  an  actress." 

"  Celeste  is  very  entertaining,"  said  Philip. 
"  How  charming  she  was  the  night  we  first 
met  Miss  Elmslie,  at  her  house  !  " 

"Oh,  how  do  you  kike  Rose  Elmslie?" 
cried  Fridoline,  suddenly,  scanning  Philip's 
face  as  she-  spoke.  She  thought  she  detected 
a  slight  change  of  color  there. 

"  Then-  can  be  but  one  opinion,"  he  re- 
plied :  "  she  is  surpassingly  lovely." 

"  Of  course— do  you  like  her?  " 

"Really,  Fridoline,  I  cannot  say  that  I 
dislike  Miss  Elmslie.  Poor  thing  !  one  must 
regret  that,  voting  and  beautiful  as  she  is. 
*he  has  chosen  a  life  so  full  of  temptations  as 

"  Temptations  !  "  echoed  Fridoline,  scorn- 
fully. "  Yen,  you  are  right.  Our  life  bus 
temptations  to  such  as  Hose  Elmslie,  though 
to  me  they  are  horrors.  Well,  as  you  will 
not  he  candid,  I  will.  I  was  interested  in 
that  irirl's  story,  and  wished  to  know  her  ;  but 
the  m  Muent  we  met  I  felt  an  4  tfi>it/nrin<-iif  '  - 
J  don't  know  your  word  in  BngHflh — to\u»nls 
Iier.  that  I  have  never  lost.  Her  beauty  is 
extraordinary;  but  when  I  look  at  her  fixed- 
ly, she  grows  hideous  to  me.  Either  what 


she  is,  or  what  she  will  be,  makes  me  shrink 
away  from  her." 

Philip  thought  Fridoline  harsh,  and  could 
not  at  all  agree  with  her  opinions  of  the  poor 
little  dancer,  and  gradually  their  conversa- 
tion turned  again  to  other  things.  Fridoline 
talked  of  her  childhood  (an  unusual  confi- 
dence for  her),  in  a  quiet  old  country  house, 
where  they  had  seven  months  of  bright  in- 
tense winter,  and  five  of  summer  and  flowers  ; 
and  where,  until  she  was  fifteen,  she  had 
never  known  more  of  the  world  than  going  on 
Sunday  to  the  village  church,  three  miles  dis- 
tant; or  more  gaiety  than  the  midsummer's 
night  festival  among  the  peasants  in  the 
mountains.  Then  she  made  Philip  tell  of 
his  own  childish  days  ;  and  her  eyes  glistened 
when  she  heard  him  regret  that  he  could  only- 
just  remember  his  mother. 

"  You  are  happy,"  she  murmured,  "  very 
happy  in  that  remembrance  of  her.  Would 
God  I  had  the  same  !  " 

"  Have  you  no  mother,  Fridoline?  "  He 
was  sorry  for  the  question,  when  he  saw  the 
spasm  of  agony  which  suddenly  contracted 
her  features. 

"  None,"  she  replied,  with  a  hoarse  voice 
and  bloodless  lip.  "  Let  us  speak  of  other 
things  ; '  I  know  not  why  I  spoke  of  home,  or 
of  my  childhood." 

And,  with  a  wonderful  effort  over  herself, 
she  began  speaking  upon  some  indifferent 
subject;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  had  regained 
her  usual  lively  strain.  The  hours  passed 
by  unheeded;  for  no  one  ever  remembered 
time  in  the  society  of  Fridoline.  All  that  in 
usual  conversation  is  tame  and  common,  van- 
ished away  in  the  light  thrown  over  the  most 
trivial  subjects  by  her  brilliant  fancy — her 
wit — her  quick  insight — and  the  natural  elo- 
quence, which,  even  in  a  foreign  language, 
could  find  words  always  expressive — always 
ready.  And  Philip,  who  detested  what  are 
generally  styled  clever  women,  forgot,  that 
he  was  listening  to  one  in  little  Fridoline. 
At  length  the  western  sun  threw  long,  slant- 
ing shadows  across  the  heath,  and  he  began 
to  think  that  he  ought  not  to  trespass  longer 
on  her  time,  of  which  every  moment  was  so 
valuable.  lie  was  just  preparing  to  say  so, 
when  a  sudden  noise  arose  in  the  household, 
and  Fridoliue  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  minute,11  she  exclaimed; 
"  Ilulda  is  distributing  some  of  her  hourly 
injustice  among  my  creatures,  and  1  must  in- 
terfere. She  sits  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  and 
hears  a  low,  ominous  sound  under  the  table, 
without  deigning  to  notice  it.  The  sound 
deepens — then  comes  Iles>'s  well-known  hiss 
— then  screams  from  the  cats — and  when  tlio 
hawk  is  flapping  his  wings  with  pa>sion — tho 
cats  locked  in  a  perfect  embrace  of  hatred  — 
and  Karl  flying  round  and  round,  gnashing 
lii^  tei-lh  at  everybody,  I  lulda  ri>es,  and,  with 
the  nea.'-c>t  weapon  that  come*  to  hand, 
eliu.iliseb  them  all  round,  and  then  turns  them 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


into  the  garden.  But  I  never  permit  it  when 
I  am  at  home  ;  for  it  is  impossible  they  are  all 
wrong  and  they  know  when  they  are  punish- 
ed unjustly." 

She  ran  lightly  down  stairs,  and  Philip 
soon  heard  h«r  in  high  discussion  with  Hul- 
da,  in  some  foreign  language,  which,  spoken 
by  Fridoline,  sounded  musical.  Then  the 
voices  became  fainter,  as  they  went  off  into 
the  back-garden — probably,  after  the  ban- 
ished creatures — and,  finally,  Fridoline  re- 
mained away  so  long,  that  Philip  thought  he 
would  himself  go  in  search  of  her.  There 
were  two  doors,  both  on  the  same  side  of  the 
room,  one  leading  into  the  passage,  the  other 
to  Fridoline's  sleeping-room ;  and,  not  hav- 
ing noticed  at  which  he  entered,  Philip  acci- 
dentally opened  the  wrong  one.  He  instant- 
ly drew  back  ;  but  the  momentary  glance  he 
caught,  was  of  something  so  white  and  fresh, 
that  he  held  the  handle  of  the  lock  irresolute, 
and,  finally,  took  a  fuller  view  of  the  little 
room.  It  was  plain  as  her  sitting-room,  and 
as  unlike  the  apartment  of  an  actress.  There 
were  no  untidy  remains  of  finery — no  cheval 
glass — no  filigree  bottles — no  signs  of  theat- 
rical costume.  On  the  dressing-table  a  cup 
with  violets  in  it  was  the  only  ornament :  on 
the  other  side  of  the  glass  lay  a  large  clasped 
book.  A  white  French  bed  stood  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  and  immediately  oppo- 
site, so  that  it  was  the  first  and  last  object 
upon  which  the  eyes  of  the  young  actress 
must  daily  rest,  hung  an  exquisite  copy  of 
one  of  Guido's  pictures  :  the  head  of  a  dying 
Christ. 

Philip  felt  strangely  moved ;  and,  impell- 
ed by  a  feeling  that  he  could  not  withstand, 
hu  walked  softly  to  the  dressing-table  and 
unclasped  the  book,  which  bore  marks  of  be- 
ing better  read  than  any  of  those  down  stairs. 
It  was  a  New  Testament,  and  on  the  title 
page  was  written,  in  French,  "  Fridoline — 
on  her  tenth  birthday."  A  slight  knowledge 
of  northern  languages  enabled  Philip  to  dis- 
cover that  the  Testament  was  written  in 
Swedish,  and  printed  at  Christiania  ;  so  Nor- 
way, after  all,  was  Fridoline's  country.  A 
black  book-marker  worked  at  one  end  with  a 
cross,  was  in  the  book,  and  Philip  turned  to 
the  page  where  it  was  placed.  It  was  the 
story  of  that  repentant  Magdalene  from  whom 
He,  in  His  perfect  purity,  (fid  not  turn 
away,  and  the  leaf  was  actually  worn  and 
blistered  with  tears,  as  though  daily  read  and 
w«pt  over.  Philip  closed  the  book,  and 
quickly  retreated  from  the  poor  girl's  room, 
with  a  feeling  of  compunction  at  having  thus 
unwittingly  discovered  one  of  the  secrets  of 
her  liie — then  he  descended  to  join  her  in  the 
garden.  But  in  those  few  minutes  his  inter- 
est in  her  was  increased  tenfold,  for  he  knew 
that,  whatever  had  been  her  history,  what- 
ever her  knowledge  of  vice — whose  recol- 
lection still  seemed  to  weigh  so  heavily  upon 
her — Fridoline  was  now  a  pure  and  sinless 


When  the  sun  had  set,  and  the  moon  was 
just  rising  over  the  trees,  Philip  bade  her 
good  night  at  the  little  garden  gate. 

**  May  your  next  birthday  prove  as  happy 
to  you,  dear  Fridoline,  as  this  one  has  been 
to  me,"  were  his  last  words  when  they  part- 
ed. 

She  stood  long  watching  his  figure  till  it 
was  lost  in  the  deepening  shadows  of  the 
heath.  Then  she  prepared  to  enter ;  but  the 
cottage  looked  very  dark. 

"  To  work,"  she  said,  and  an  almost  stern 
expression  came  over  her  features.  "  To 
work ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  feel- 
ings. My  life  has  henceforth  only  one  ob- 
ject— to  work,  and  toil,  and  win  money." 
And  all  the  youthful  beauty  was  gone  from 
her  face,  as  she  entered,  and  passed  quickly 
into  her  study.  Long  after  midnight  the 
light  still  shone  from  Fridoline's  window, 
while  she  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  with 
her  eyes  heavy,  and  her  whole  frame  wea- 
ried, but  still  patiently  learning  her  long  role 
for  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  London  season  drew  to  a  close — that 
sweet  time  of  early  summer,  when  Nature  .s 
in  her  youngest  beauty,  and  every  hedge 
and  field  laden  with  freshness,  but  which 
English  people  choose  to  spend  in  town. 

Philip  was  going  on  in  his  usual  life :  he 
was,  however,  thinking  earnestly  of  begin- 
ning another  work,  and  was  undecided  how 
and  where  to  spend  the  summer.  He  longed 
for  quiet — to  be  away  from  the  St.  Lexers, 
and  even  from  his  own  friends  for  a  time ; 
but  still  he  hesitated  what  plan  to  adopt.  He 
always  treated  his  wife  with  courtesy,  and 
would  himself  make  no  proposal  of  actual 
separation,  although  their  life  together  had 
virtually  long  been  one  ;  and  the  most  deadly 
of  all,  a  separation  under  one  roof.  A  cir- 
cumstance, however,  occurred  at  this  time 
which  rendered  him  and  Clara  both  more  in- 
dependent. Although  the  earl  was  himself 
irretrievably  ruined,  in  a  younger  branch  of 
the  St.  Leger  family  there  was  no  lack  of 
wealth.  It  had  entered  it  by  the  marriage  of 
one  of  their  house,  some  years  before,  with 
the  daughter  of  a  retired  manufacturer,  and 
was  now  enjoyed  by  a  cousin  of  Lord  St. 
Leger — a  widower,  with  an  only  son  of  about 
fourteen.  It  was  in  the  power  of  the  pos- 
sessor to  will  the  property  to  whom  he  chose  ; 
and  this  circumstance,  as  well  as  the  two 
young,  strong  lives  which  stood  between  him 
and  the  succession,  had  prevented  Lord  St. 
Leger  from  ever  speculating  on  any  contin- 
gency that  could  affect  himself.  He  \vstb  not 
on  good  terms  even  with  his  cousin,  and  the 
latter  had  a  whole  host  of  his  wife's  relations 


88 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


ready  to  become  his  heirs  in  the  event  of 
the  death  of  IHS  own  son. 

One  morning,  however — a  few  days  be- 
fore the  time  when  Lord  St.  Leger  had 
fixed,  in  his  own  mind,  that  exposure  conld 
no  longer  be  avoided,  nor  angry  creditors 
kept  at  bay — he  found,  on  his  breakfast  ta- 
ble, an  ominous-looking  letter,  with  im- 
mense black  edges,  and  directed  in  a  lawyer- 
like  hand.  As  his  eye  glanced  at  the  post- 
mark, a  strange,  nervous  tremor  came  over 
him,  and  he  could  scarcely  break  open  the 
envelope.  Like  all  gamblers,  he  was  su- 
perstitious ;  and  an  unusual  run  of  luck  at 
hazard  the  last  few  days  gave  him  a  forebod- 
ing that  his  good  star  was  in  the  ascendant. 
lie  was  not  mistaken.  The  letter  was  from 
his  cousin's  solicitor,  informing  him  of  the 
melancholy  death  of  his  two  relations,  who 
had  been  drowned  together  by  the  upsetting 
of  a  boat  on  one  of  the  Highland  lakes;  and 
it  went  on  to  state  that  his  cousin,  having 
made  no  provision  for  an  event  like  the  fear- 
ful one  which  had  just  occurred,  Lord  St. 
LciMT  as  heir-at-law,  inherited  the  whole  of 
the  property.  The  father,  in  his  will,  had 
left  everything  to  his  son,  with  the  pi'oviso 
that,  should  the  latter  inherit,  and  die  be- 
fore attaining  his  majority,  the  money  should 
then  be  divided  between  several  of  his  late 
\vife?s  relations,  who  were  named.  The  ca- 
tastrophe, however,  which  ended  both  lives, 
had  been  watched  by  a  knot  of  spectators 
from  the  beach;  and  there  was  ample  testi- 
mony to  prove  that  the  boy  disappeared, 
never  to  rise  again,  on  the  first  upsetting  of 
the  boat,  while  his  father,  who  could  swim, 
was  seen  for  several  minutes  vainly  battling 
•with  the  waves,  which  at  length  overcame 
him.  The  son,  there-fore,  had  never  inherit- 
ed ;  and  through  this  slender  point  of  law. 
Lord  St.  Leger  found  himself,  at  the  very 
moment  when  his  reputation  was  about  to  be 
blasted  to  the  world,  suddenly  possessed  of 
a  large,  unincumbered  property. 

Karnscliffe,  without  any  latent  thought 
for  himself,  was  uridisguisedly  glad  at  this 
sudden  turn  of  'events,  lie  had  long  known 
that  ruin  and  disgrace  were  hanging  over 
his  father-in-law,  and  this  had  made  him 
considerate  to  Clara  far  beyond  what  her 
open  ai;d  almost  insulting  coldness  towards 
himself  de.-er\ed.  But  with  this  new  acces- 
sion of  wealth  in  her  family,  everything  was 
changed,  and,  with  no  feeling  of  sell-re- 
proach, he  might  now  see  his  haughty  wife 
j-'-tiini  to  the  protection  of  her  parents. 
<  laia's  pride,  however,  still  revolted  against 
I  ny  open  separation;  and.  miserable  ;i<  was 
her  married  life,  she  could  not  dfnermine 

lipoli  so  grave  a  -lep  ;is  herself  proposing  to 
lca\e  IHT  husband's  house.  Soon  alter  their 
<<.M-III'S  death,  the  St.  Lexers  determined 
upon  going  abroad  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  her  mother 
invited  Cult  to  accompany  them  to  some  ol 
the  (lerinan  baths  —  lor  Lord  St.  Lexer's 


first  use  xif  his  wealth  was,  if  course,  to  re- 
new his  acquaintance  with  Ilomburg  and 
Baden-Baden.  With  so  plausible  an  excuse, 
for  her  health  was  really  delicate,  and  being 
under  the  protection  of  her  own  parents,  she 
felt  that  the  world,  or  even  her  friends, 
could  say  nothing  about  this  temporary  sepa- 
ration, and  she  really  longed  for  any  relief 
from  her  present  life.  Accordingly  she  made 
the  proposal  to  Philip,  and  read  in  his  bright- 
ening face  his  ready  acquiescence. 

"  I  trust,  you  will  derive  benefit  from  the 
change,  Clara,"  he  replied.  "  My  own  au- 
tumn will  be  passed  in  some  quiet  spot, 
where  I  can  enter  undisturbed  upon  my  new 
work.  In  the  winter  we  shall  meet  again." 

They  parted  coldly,  but  as  friends;  and 
when  Philip  heard  the  last  sounds  of  the 
carriage- wheels  which  bore  away  his  wife 
and  her  parents,  he  gave  a  sigh  of  intense 
relief,  and  felt  "  I  am  free." 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  call  on  his 
friend,  Neville.  He  found  the  young  artist 
in  unbounded  spirits ;  his  large  picture  in 
the  exhibition  was  sold,  and  he  had,  that 
very  day,  received  orders  for  two  more  of 
similar  size. 

"  Congratulate  me !  I  am  now  on  the 
high-road  to  fame,  EarnsclifTe ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  shook  Philip's  luyul  heartily. 
"In  another  year  I  shall  have  realised 
enough  money  to  enable'me  to  go  to  Rome  ; 
two  vears  I  shall  remain  and  studv  there, 
then  return  to  England,  and,  I  firmly  believe, 
be  one  of  our  first  landscape  painters." 

Philip  warmly  entered  into  his  sanguine 
hopes,  and  sat  long  with  his  friend,  who, 
with  his  accustomed  energy,  was  already 
sketching  the  outline  for  one  of  his  new  pic- 
tures. 

"  Yours  is  a  happy  life,  Neville." 

"Yes;  some  of  my  lonely  hours,  when  I 
have  been  working  at  my  pictures,  and  my 
recent  ones  of  success,  I  would  exchange 
with  no  man.  But  1  have  had  years  of  toil 
— bitter  toil  and  disappointment — before  at- 
taining to  even  my  present  liune.  There  is 
so  much  mere  mechanism  for  a  painter  to  ac- 
quire before  he  can  express  his  ideas.  Look 
at  yourself  now:  you  are  five  or  six  \ears 
younger  than  I  am,  but  your  first  book — 
written,  as  yon  have  told  me.  without  an  ex- 
ertion—made you  celebrated." 

The  remark  reminded  Karnsdifl'e  of  Frid- 

oline,  and  he  repeated  some  of  her  obsi  rva- 
tions  on  art  to  Neville. 

"  She  is  a  gifted  little  creature,"  he  re- 
plied :  "but  Eewaf€  of  these  long,  lonely 
conversations,  Phil.  A  woman  like  Frido- 
line  would  be  the  very  devil  to  have  in  lovo 
with  one." 

"  There  is  no  risk."  said  Philip,  gravely. 
"  Fridoline  is  not  a  "jrl  to  inspire  any  light 
sentiment,  nor  likely  herself  to  fall  in  lovu 
wil  h  a  married  man."' 

"Ah,  true!  I  beg  both  your  pat. Ions. 
The  fact  is,  1  never  remember  that  \mi  art 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


39 


married.  How  is  your  domestic  bliss  getting 
on?1' 

Philip  mentioned  the  departure  of  his  wife. 

"  And  what  are  you  goin<*  to  do  with  your 
summer  and  your  freedom  ?  "  asked  the  ar- 
tist ;  "  not  waste  them,  by  staying  at  country 
houses,  I  hope." 

Philip  said  he  wished  to  live  in  perfect  soli- 
tude for  some  months  while  he  worked  at  his 
new  book. 

"  Then  I  have  it  all,"  exclaimed  Neville, 
throwing  down  his  pencil,  and  seizing  both 
Philip's  hands;  "we  will  go  together,  old 
fellow.  I  will  take  you  to  my  wild  quarters 
among  the  Highlands,  where  I  spent  last 
autumn  ;  and  if  you  do  not  find  them  retired 
enough,  you  must  indeed  be  fond  of  solitude. 
You  can  write — I  sketch — and  both  forget,  in 
the  mountain  air,  and  with  nothing  but  Na- 
ture round  us,  our  feverish  town  life,  our 
friends,  wives,  aye,  and  Fridoline  herself!" 

"  I  am  ready,"  returned  Philip.  And 
they  entered  so  eagerly  into  their  new  plans 
that  Neville  soon  abandoned  his  pencil,  and, 
after  changing  his  painting-blouse  for  a  coat, 
proposed  that  they  should  walk  out  together 
in  the  Park.  It  was  a  hot,  bright  day,  and 
all  London  seemed  there.  Carriages  and 
equestrians  crowded  past  in  an  unbroken 
stream  ;  and  Earnscliffe'sbat  was  off  repeat- 
edly. 

"Hold  it  in  your  hand,  at  once,"  said 
Neville.  "  How  can  you  be  at  the  trouble 
of  uncovering  every  second,  for  all  these 
people  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  evils  of  society,  I  ad- 
mit," said  Philip;  "but,  still,  unavoidable. 
Let  us  turn  into  one  of  the  side-walks,  where 
•we  shall  be  less  disturbed." 

At  that  moment  a  very  dashing  little  equi- 
page,' with  two  showy  black  ponies,  came 
along,  clearing  its  way  dexterously  among  the 
interminable  labyrinth  of  wheels  by  which  it 
was  surrounded.  It  was  driven  by  a  lady, 
whose  perfect  sang  froid,  and  dress,  and  re- 
markable beauty,  drew  every  eye  upon  her. 
She  was  unaccompanied,  a  diminutive  page 
only  sitting  behind,  but  did  not  seem  the 
least  disconcerted  at  the  admiration  she  at- 
tracted. 

"  Rose  Elmslie,  by  Jove  !  "  said  Neville. 
"  Well,  she  is  getting  on.  Who  paid  for  all 
that,  I  wonder,  Phil  ?  Count  B ,  I  sup- 
pose, out  of  his  Derby  winnings." 

Philip's  eye  marked  her  coldly,  and  he  bit 
his  lip,  without  answering.  When  she  was 
quite  close  she  perceived  them,  and  colored 
scarlet,  as  she  bowed.  Philip  took  his  hat 
off  to  the  ground  ;  Neville  nodded. 

"  Well,  hang  it,  Phil !  salute  your  own 
friends  if  you  will,  but  I  cannot  understand 
taking  off  your  hat  to  a  woman  of  that  kind, 
as  though  she  were  a  duchess." 

"  I  am  only  just  beginning  to  think  that 
she  is  a  woman  of  that  kind,"  said  Philip,  in 
a  low  voice. 


"Why,  what  should  she  be? — poor,  love- 
ly, and  a  dancer — bah  !  " 

Earnscliffe  took  his  friend's  arm,  and  they 
walked  on  to  a  retired  part  of  Kensington 
Gardens,  where  they  sat  down  to  discuss 
their  plans  for  the  summer  quietly.  The  ar- 
tist continued  in  excellent  spirits,  but  Philip 
seemed  somewhat  depressed,  and  even  more 
anxious  to  get  away  from  town  than  his  friend. 

"  Are  you  '  thinking  of  an  absent 
spouse  ?  '  "  remarked  Neville,  at  last.  "  You 
seem  to  be  very  much  out  of  spirits  all  at 
once ! " 

"  Not  I.  I  am  in  remarkably  good  spirits, 
on  the  contrary." 

"  If  it  were  possible — but  no;  the  sight 
of  that  worthless  young  thing  cannot  have 
had  any  effect  upon  you." 

"  If  you  mean  Miss  Elmslie  by  your  po- 
lite term,  undoubtedly  not.  Miss  Elmslie  is 
nothing  to  me." 

"  And  will  continue  so,  I  trust.  She  is  of 
a  worse  description  than  Fridoline,  or  even 
Celeste.  Tell  me  what  your  next  book  is  to 
be  about.  Do  you  sketch  the  entire  outline 
before  commencing,  as  one  does  for  a  picture, 
or  write  on  where  your  fancy  leads  you  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  shall  write  very  differently  this 
time.  My  two  first  books  have  succeeded  as 
much  from  accident  as  merit — as  much  from 
their  vices  as  their  virtues.  Now  I  must 
begin  writing  for  real  fame — for  solid  criti- 
cism." 

And  the  afternoon  passed  by  while  they 
talked  over  their  mutual  hopes  and  projects. 
They  dined  afterwards  at  Philip's  club,  and 
in  a  few  days  were  en  route  for  Scotland. 
The  remainder  of  the  fine  weather  passed 
happily  to  them  both.  Each  pursued  his  own 
occupation,  absorbed  and  uninterrupted  ;  but 
they  had  the  companionship  of  kindred 
thought  when  they  needed  it,  after  work,  and 
would  wander  for  hours  together  among  the 
mountains  in  the  calm  summer  evenings. 
On  Philip  the  change  was  most  beneficial. 
He  had  a  softer  and  more  pliant  nature  than 
his  friend,  and  his  mind  had  lost  more  of  its 
tone  during  its  contact  with  the  world,  from 
the  ready  way  he  fell  into  the  life  of  those 
around  him.  But  this  difference  was  merely 
one  of  temperament.  He  had  more  real 
genius  than  the  artist ;  and  after  a  few  weeks- 
spent  among  this  grand,  still  nature,  Philip- 
wrote  with  a  fervor  and  inspiration  far  sur- 
passing that  in  either  of  his  former  works. 

Neville  studied  fore-ground,  noted  atmos- 
pheric effects,  and  thought,  as  his  sketches 
multiplied,  of  the  pictures  they  would  form, 
and  of  his  own  fame.  He  had  exactly  the 
organisation  of  a  man  who  is  to  succeed  in 
this  world.  Sufficient  genius,  untiring  indus- 
try, energy  that  no  failure  could  damp,  an 
iron  frame,  and  a  boundless  ambition.  With 
Philip,  to  gaze  at  a  golden  sunset  or  moun- 
tain storm,  was  to  unloose  a  flood  of  uncon- 
scious poetry  in  his  heart;  and  afterwards 


40 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


he  simply  wrote  down  his  thoughts  as  they 
existed,  without  labor,  often  without  a  single 
alteration,  and  always  forgetful  of  himself  or 
his  own  success.  With  him  the  artist  was 
lost  in  the  art,  and  both  at  times  in  the  source 
from  whence  come  poet  and  inspiration  alike. 
With  Neville  this  was  never  the  case.  Pos- 
sessing an  exuberant  fancy,  he  was  not  for 
one  moment  himself  under  the  influence  of 
his  own  imagination.  He  could  conceive 
•wild  and  beautiful  pictures,  and  for  his  art 
had  a  really  passionate  love,  but  it  all  seem- 
ed unconnected,  as  it  were,  with  his  own 
personal  existence ;  and  the  artist  ever  re- 
mained a  consistent,  practical  citizen  of  the 
world.  He  was  the  best  friend  and  adviser 
possible  for  Philip,  who,  although  he  had 
conformed  nvuch  more  than  Neville  to  the 
life  of  society,  plunged  into  numberless  fol- 
1'es,  from  which  the  other  had  continued  free, 
was  yet  a  very  child  at  heart,  compared  to 
the  artist,  and  still  possessed  a  hundred  illu- 
sions which  Neville  had  lost  in  his  boyhood. 
For  instance,  bitter  as  had  been  his  own 
short  experience  of  married  life,  Philip  had 
still  a  firm  belief  in  the  existence  of  pure 
and  faithful  love  ;  a  point  on  which  his  friend, 
if  not  sceptical,  was  cold  and  sarcastic,  and 
in  his  new  works  wrote  with  enthusiasm  on 
this  subject,  in  spite  of  Neville's  criticisms. 
And  often,  when  they  walked  silently  under 
the  starry  summer  night,  he  felt  the  myste- 
rious workings  of  youth  and  love  that  were 
FO  strong  within  his  own  heart,  and  asked  him- 
self if  the)  were  never  in  this  world  to  be  sat- 
isfied— while  he  wrote  of  love  and  imagined  it 
for  others,  was  his  own  life  to  be  spent  only 
between  the  world,  and  the  cold,  dull  tedium 
of  his  loveless  marriage  ?  But  this  was  a 
theme  he  never  entered  upon  with  Neville. 

The  autumn  passed  quickly  away.  The 
hills,  from  bright  golden,  had  become  brown, 
and  the  purple  was  gone  from  the  heather ; 
but  at  the  beginning  of  November  the 
friends  still  lingered  in  their  Highland  cot- 
tage, endeared  to  them  both  from  the  glowing 
thoughts  of  pen  and  pencil  which  had  there 
had  birth,  and  neither  of  them  was  anxious 
to  return  to  town.  The  days  were,  however, 
now  very  short,  and  the  weather  so  uncer- 
tain, that  they  at  length  unwillingly  depart- 
ed :  Neville  to  his  London  lodging,  and 
Philip  to  pay  his  uncle  a  long-promised  \i-it. 
The  St.  Legers  had  not  yet  returned  to  Eng- 
land. 

J  hiring  the  autumn  Philip  had  received  oc- 
casional notes  from  his  wife.  They  were, 
like  herself,  cold,  abrupt,  and  uninteresting, 
and  he  did  not  rend  them  twice;  but  in  the 
one  which  awaited  him  on  his  arrival  at 
Miles  Karnscliil'e's,  the  first  lines  arrested 
his  at  tent  inn  at  once.  Lady  (  Mara  announced 
that  they  would  all  be  in  London  during  the 
OOnfM  of  the  month,  and  reminded  1'liilip, 
at  the  expiration  of  the  pre>i-nt  term,  to  take 
on  their  house  in  Park  Lane  lor  the  coming 


season.     So  his  wife  had  still  no  wish  for  an 
open  separation ! 


CHAPTER  XT. 

AGAIN  the  London  season  was  at  its 
height. 

Philip  and  Clara  had  met  with  a  tolerable 
show  of  friendliness,  on  her  return  from  Ger- 
many, but  he  had  soon  merged  airain  into  his 
old  life  ;  and  Clara,  whose  health  appeared 
little  improved,  became  more  gloomy  ami 
taciturn  than  ever.  Her  father's  unlooked- 
for  accession  of  wealth  had  only  added  to  the 
bitterness  which  rankled  in  her  heart  about 
her  marriage.  She  felt  that,  as  the  heiress 
of  an  immense  fortune,  she  might  have  been 
spared  the  humiliation  of  stooping  to  win 
her  young  cousin,  for  the  sake  of  his  mer- 
chant-uncle's money  ;  and  her  mother  came 
in  for  the  full  share  of  thanks,  which  she 
merited,  as  principal  promoter  of  the  mar- 
riage ;  and  had  to  bear  many  a  cold  taunt 
from  her  daughter  on  the  subject. 

In  time,  Clara  went  rarely  even  to  her  own 
parent's  house,  more  rarely  still  into  society. 
She  shrank,  with  a  morbid  feeling,  from  the 
scrutiny  of  her  old  friends;  and  her  life  was 
passed  in  hugging  to  her  heart  her  disap- 
pointment and  loneliness.  She  had  no  child 
to  break  the  tedium  of  her  long  hours,  and 
open  the  one  warm  spring  of  happiness  left 
to  many  a  deserted  wife ;  few  mental  re- 
sources ;  no  religion,  beyond  that  of  appear- 
ing in  her  pew  every  Sunday,  to  listen  to 
some  fashionable  preacher;  while,  week  alter 
week,  she  became  more  fully  sensible  of  hoc 
husband's  indifference,  a'-d  the  life  of  eter- 
nal dissipation  he  was  leading.  His  new 
work  was  in  the  press,  and  great  things  were, 
expected  of  it.  Philip  himself  I'. -It  that  it 
was  far  superior  to  either  of  his  former  ones, 
and  his  own  opinion  was  confirmed  by  the 
friendly  criticisms  he  had  received  on  the- 
manuscript,  lie  had  much  to  do  in  correct- 
ing proofs,  and  so  on:  but  still  found  ample 
time  for  society,  especially  that  of  the  <'<»ili$- 
.sv.v,  which  now  appeared  to  possess  a  renew- 
ed and  powerful  fascination  to  the  young 
author. 

Neville,  meantime,  was  working,  during 
everv  moment  of  daylight,  on  his  pictures, 
lie  gave  up  parties  of  all  kinds,  and  scaiv- 
Iv  even  went  to  the.  theatre,  that  his  head 
might  be  more  clear,  his  hand  more  steady, 
for  his  morning's  work;  and  every  aliernoori 
after  dusk  he  look  long  walks  into  flic  cmiu- 
trv,  for  the.  sake  of  his  mental  ami  bodily 
health.  Everything  he  did  was  subservient 
t(i  one  object  —he  must  complete  his  two 
pictures  before  the  exhibition,  lie  paid  for 
them,  and  start  for  Homo;  and  not  e\cry 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


41 


pleasure  in  London  could  have  drawn  him 
aside  from  the  steady  execution  of  his  plans. 
He  had  not  seen  very  much  of  Philip  since 
their  return  from  Scotland.  He  had  himself 
no  time  for  visiting;  and  every  moment  of 
Earnscliffe's  life  was  so  taken  up  with  some 
new  excitement,  that  his  visits  to  his  friend's 
quiet  studio  were  far  less  frequent  than  for- 
merly. Besides  this,  Neville,  on  the  plea 
of  his  seniority,  always  gave  Philip  quiet 
lectures  about  the  way  he  was  frittering  away 
his  time,  which  the  latter  did  not  at  all  relish, 
especially  as  he  himself  well  knew  the  truth 
of  these  remarks. 

One  evening,  Neville  was  returning  from  a 
long,  quick  walk  on  Hampstead  Heath,  his 
step  firm,  his  head  erect,  and  his  arms  folded, 
as  was  his  wont,  \Vhen  he  saw  a  figure  some 
fifty  yards  ahead.  He  thought  he  recognised 
the  slight  form,  the  slow,  graceful  walk,  and 
quickened  his  pace.  It  was  Earnscliffe. 

"  Good  evening,  Phil." 

44  Hallo  !  Neville — what,  you  here  ?  " 

*'  Ave,  '  qiie  diable  faites  vous  dans  cefie 
gaUre  ?  '  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say.  Well, 
1  have  been  doing  as  you  should — walking 
alone  on  the  heath  to  cool  my  head,  after  the 
day's  work.  And  you  ?  " 

*'  I  ? — I  have  just  been  walking  home  with 
Fridoline,"  answered  Philip,  hesitating  a  lit- 
tle. He  did  not  much  like  talking  about  her 
to  Neville. 

44  Oh  !  how  is  she  getting  on,  by  the  way  ? 
I  have  no  time  for  theatres  and  actresses,  and 
such  things  now." 

"  Fridoline  is,  as  usual,  working  hnrd  at 
her  profession,  looking  paler  and  older,  I 
think,  and  more  strange  and  lonely  in  her 
life  than  she  ever  was." 

"  Only  diversifying  it  by  twilight  walks  on 
the  heath  with  Philip  Earnscliffe,"  added  the 
artist.  "  Poor  philosophic  little  Fridoline  ! 
Well,  I  don't  think  you  are  in  any  danger 
from  that  quarter,  whatever  she  may  be." 

"In  danger  from  her! — none/I  should 
trust,"  returned  Philip,  with  a  short  laugh, 
and  seemingly  quite  disposed  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  I  hope  not,  I  am  sure.  But,  indepen- 
dently of  Fridoline — who  is  about  the  best 
of  them — you  are  wasting  your  fine  energies 
among  all  these  people,  when  you  should  be 
thinking  of  your  art  alone.  That  worthless 
young  Elmslie,  now — " 

44  Neville " 

44  Don't  be  in  a  rage,  Philip,  or  I  shall 
really  think  badly  of  you." 

44  1  am  not  the  least  in  a  rage ;  but  I  will 
not  hear  you  speak  in  those  terms  of  poor 
Rose.  She  was  brought  up  to  a  life  she  now 
hates,  when  a  mere  child ;  she  is  lovely, 
young,  surrounded  with  temptation,  and 
therefore  you  condemn  her." 

44  Not  in  the  least.  I  think  her  conduct  is 
excessively  natural,  and  like  that  of  every 
other  dancer  in  the  world.  I  made  use  of 
the  word  4  worthless'  only  because,  for  her 


\  age,  she  possesses  a  really  unusual  amount 
of  deceit,  in  addition  to  her  beauty,  and 
temptation,  and  sorrow  for  the  life  she  leads. 
Well,  it  is  wonderful  how  these  women  all 
pitch  upon  you  for  the  repository  of  their 
pious  compunctions,  and  how  you  believe 
them.  First  Fridoline,  now  young  Elmslie; 
I  suppose  we  shall  have  Celeste  herself  next 
upon  your  list  of  penitents.  What  an  absurd 
world  we  live  in  !  " 

Although  Philip  defended  Rose  Elmslie  so 
warmly,  it  pained  him  to  hear  his  poor  little 
friend  Fridoline  classed  with  her.  He  felt 
that  the  distance  between  them  was  im- 
measurable ;  but  feared  provoking'  Neville's 
sarcasm  by  saying  so. 

44  How  is  Rose  deceitful?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

4'  Only  in  talking  sentiment,  and  regretting 
her  life  with  you  in  morning,  and  receiving 

bracelets  from  Count  B in  the  afternoon, 

while  she  really  laughs  at  you  both  with 
somebody  else  afterwards.  But  think  as  you 
like,  you  know  ;  I  shall  certainly  retain  'my 
opinions  too." 

Earnscliffe  got  rather  angry,  and  again  be- 
gan defending  Miss  Elmslie  with  all  the  vehe- 
mence of  a  champion  who  really  doubts  the 
right  of  his  cause ;  but  Neville  interrupted 
him. 

44  Let  us  change  the  subject,  Phil ;  you  are 
a  perfect  boy,  still,  and  cannot  learn  experi- 
ence as  quickly  as  I  did ;  however,  you  will 
buy  it  at  last — and,  in  the  meantime,  do  not 
quarrel  with  one  friend  for  all  the  actresses 
in  creation.  Towards  the  end  of  May,  I 
think  I  shall  start  for  Switzerland,  and  shall 
then  remain  two  years  in  Italy  ;  so  I  shall  not 
see  much  more  of  you.  But  write  sometimes, 
and  tell  me  how  all  this  life  of  yours  ends, 
and  which  was  right  you  or  I." 

Philip's  annoyance  was  quickly  over,  and 
Neville  was  soon  talking  eagerly  of  the  prog- 
ress of  his  pictures.  Then  he* inquired  ho\y 
soon  the  new  book  would  appear. 

'4  In  about  a  month,"  returned  Philip. 
44  It  is  far  better  written  than  either  of  my 
former  ones ;  consequently,  I  ought  to  have 
good  hopes  of  success  ;  and  yet — 1  know  not 
why — I  have  a  sort  of  foreboding  that  it  will 
be,  not,  perhaps,  a  failure,  but,  at  all  events, 
very  differently  received  to  the  two  first." 

Neville  tried  to  reason  him  out  of  this  feel- 
ing, and  they  parted,  with  their  accustomed 
friendly  shake  of  the  hand,  at  the  Regent's 
Circus,  where  their  roads  separated.  Neville 
went  off,  happy,  to  his  dark,  comfortless 
lodgings,  and  Philip  returned  home  to  din- 
ner. By  some  extraordinary  chance  he 
dined  tete-a-tete  with  his  wife,  almost  for  the 
first  time  since  their  honeymoon,  and  they 
both  felt  strange  in  each  other's  society. 

4*  Have  you  an  engagement  for  this  even- 
ing, Clara?  "  he  asked,  during  the  couise  of 
dinner.  She  looked  up  astonished. 

44  None.  You  know  I  have  almost  given 
up  going  out,  now  that  my  health  is  so  bad." 


42 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


"  You  will  not  go  to  the  opera,  then  ?  " 

*'  Certainly  not."  She  felt  positively  be- 
wildered at  this  sudden  interest  in  her  move- 
ments. 

"  Well,  you  are  right.  It  is  a  stupid 
}  opera  this  evening,  and  there  is  no  ballet ; 
1  though,  perhaps,  you  do  not  care  for  that." 

Clara  made  no  reply ;  and  her  husband, 
after  one  or  two  languishing  attempts  at  con- 
versation, became  silent  also. 

After  dinner  Philip's  cab  came  round  al- 
most immediately.  Clara  was  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  happened  to  be  standing  at 
the  window,  which  she  had  just  opened  to 
place  a  bouquet  of  flowers  on  the  balcony,  in 
the  fresh  air,  at  the  moment  when  Philip  left 
the  house.  She  saw  him  jump  in,  and  then, 
•without  any  intention  of  listening,  accident- 
ally heard  him  say  to  the  servant,  "  Oh,  just 
go  back  for  the  latch-key,  I  have  forgotten 
it;  and  no  one  need  sit  up,  of  course.  The 
opera  will  not  be  over  till  late."  The  groom 
returned  directly,  and,  a  second  afterwards, 
the  cab  drove  off.  Clara  then  drew  in  her 
head  and  closed  the  window ; — there  was  a 
slight  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheek.  "So  he 
is  going  to  this  stupid  opera  without  a  bal- 
let!"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  what  gave 
him  such  an  extreme  wish  to  know  if  I 
intended  being  there."  She  inherited  a  good 
deal  of  Lady  St.  Leger's  sharpness  in  draw- 
ing unfavorable  conclusions  from  a  word  or  a 
look ;  and,  after  considering  a  few  rnimutes 
by  the  fire,  felt  certain  that  Philip  had  some 
hidden  reason  for  his  inquiries.  She  rang 
the  bell.  "  I  shall  require  the  carriage  in 
half  an  hour,"  she  said  to  the  servant  who 
entered  ;  "  I  am  going  to  the  opera  this  eve- 
ning." Then  she  went  up  into  her  dressing- 
room,  and  ordered  her  maid  to  dress  her 
quickly,  as  she  was  going  to  the  theatre. 
Her  plain  toilette  was  soon  completed,  and 
in  less  than  half-an-hour  she  was  again  in  the 
drawing-room,  walking  up  and  down  with  an 
agitated  impatience,  that  she  could  not  have 
explained  to  herself,  for  the  announcement 
of  the  carrriage. 

The  second  act  was  just  beginning  as  Clara 
reached  the  theatre.  She  was  dressed  plain- 
ly in  a  high  pearl-colored  silk,  without  orna- 
ment, or  i lowers  in  her  hair,  and  looked  alto- 
gether wo  like  an  invalid,  that  her  entrance 
was  unnoticed,  and  no  glass  directed  a  second 
time  to  her  fa«e.  Only  a  few  of  her  old 
friends,  when  they  happened  to  remark  her, 
said  "  How  awfully  dear  Clara  was  changed  !" 
And  one  or  two  of  her  husband's  acquaint- 
ance who  knew  her  by  sight,  exclaimed, 
"  (ioo-1  heaven-;  can  that  pale  woman, 
WTctehed-lookiiig  woman  be  \oiing  Karns- 
Cl life's  wile?" 

:ly  opposite   to   her  was   the    S' 
ers'   box,   ami   ('Lira  saw     her     mother,     all 
diamonds   and   pink   satin,   and  looking  c|iiile 
voting  and  smiling,   as  she   talked   to  Prince 
K ,  who  wo*  by  her  side.     A  bitter 


came  over  her  of  the  contrast  between  Lady 
St.  Leger  and  herself,  and  she  thought,  "  It 
would  be  better  for  me  if  I  had  been  like 
her.  With  her  jewels,  and  dress,  and  Prince 

N ,     and  all  the  world   seeing    her,   my 

mother  is  perfectly  happy ;  though  her  hus- 
band is  playing  away  his  very  life  at  the 
hazard-table,  and  her  only  child  made  miser- 
able, by  her  own  plans.  I  hope  she  may  not 
see  me  to-night!  "  For,  sensitively  alive  to 
her  own  deserted  position,  and  her  pale,  worn 
cheeks,  Clara  shrank  almost  with  a  feeling  of 
shame  from  recognition. 

Her  eye  glanced  stealthily  among  the 
stalls,  where  she  had  generally  seen  her  hus- 
band, but  he  was  not  in  his  accustomed  place. 

"  I  shall  see  him  by  the  side  of  Lady  N Tn 

she  thought;  and  she  swept  with  her  glass 
the  long  tiers  of  boxes — brilliant  with  flow- 
ers, and  toilettes,  and  fair  faces ;  still,  she 

saw  him  nowhere.     Lady  X ,  in  all  her 

jewels  and  beauty,  was  quietly  talking,  won- 
derful to  say,  to  her  own  husband  ! — and  at 
length  wearying  of  the  vain  search,  Clara 
gave  it  up  for  the  present,  and  directed  her 
attention  to  the  scene.  Philip  had  called  the 
opera  a  stupid  one,  but  it  contained  some  of 
Meyerbeer's  most  wild  and  spiritual  thoughts  ; 
and  Clara,  who  had  a  natural  love  for  music 
(though,  like  everything  else,  it  had  been  as 
much  crushed  as  possible  by  "  education' 
and  having  to  practise  on  the  piano  for  four 
hours  a-day  during  eight  years  of  her  life), 
now  forgot  herself  for  awhile,  in  listening  to 
the  notes  of  the  great  master,  and  the  sweet- 
est of  all  human  voices — that  of  Mario. 

The  second  act  terminated  ;  and,  in  the 
interval,  Lady  Clara  again  sought  her  hus- 
band among  the  crowds  of  faces  which 
thronged  the  vast  building.  She  thought 
every  one  in  the  theatre  seemed  unusually 
smiling  and  gay,  and  that  she  was  the  only 
neglected  woman  there.  As  she  looked,  one 
by  one,  at  the  young  men  in  the  pit  stalls, 
thinking  that,  Philip  might  perhaps  be  among 
them,  although  he  was  not  in  his  accustomed 
place,  she  observed  that  numbers  of  glasses 
were  upturned  to  one  stage-box — the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  house,  and  on  so  high  a  range 
that  Lady  Clara  had  not  even  ihou-ht  of 
lifting  her  aristocratic  eyes  in  its  direction — 
and  that  many  smiles  and  significant  looks 
seemed  to  lie  called  forth  by  its  occupants. 
A  feeling  of  curiosity  made  her  rai.-e  her 
own  glass  to  this  box.  where  she  saw  a  fare 
of  such  surpassing  loveliness  as  even  arrested 
her  own  cold  admiration — a  face  which,  in 
all  that  crowded  house  of  high-boi  n  beauty, 
had  no  peer.  After  .scanning  I  he  features 
for  a  few  seconds,  it  occurred  |o  her  that  she 
had  seen  them  belore  ;  and  she  then  remem- 
bered thai  they  were  those  of  .Mi--  Klinslie, 
the  new  (ZanMUM,  Whom  she  h,i<!  lui 
perform.  .Mi-s  Kim-lie  wa-  talking  gaily  to 
some  one  be-ide  her,  but  her  head  concealed 

the  face  <ii  her  companion  from  ('lara.    Miu 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


43 


felt  her  graze  Strangely  fascinated  to  this  girl's 
box — although  not  connecting  it  in  the  least 
with  her  search  for  Philip — and  waited  pa- 
tiently to  catch  a  glimpse  of  its  other  occu- 
pant. Rose  was  dressed  in  pale  blue,  with 
camelias  and  silver  in  her  bright  hair,  and  a 
little  white  silk  opera-cloak  falling  back  over 
her  shoulders.  She  was,  at  this  time,  about 
twenty,  but  scarcely  appeared  so  old — her 
slight  form,  delicate  features,  brilliant  com- 
plexion, and  large  blue  eyes  being  all  of  that 
cast  which  generally  give  an  appearance  of 
extreme  youth.  She  held  a  profusion  of  rare 
hot-house  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  appeared 
very  animated — smiling  and  blushing,  and 
repeatedly  hiding  her  face  in  her  rich  bou- 
quet at  her  companion's  remarks.  Sudden- 
ly she  half  stood  up  to  look  at  something  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  house,  and,  after  a  min- 
ute, reseated  herself  with  some  slight  change 
of  attitude,  so  that  the  face  of  her  compan- 
ion was  left  fully  visible  to  Lady  Clara.  It 
was  her  husband. 

So  this  was  the  cause  of  his  inquiries  about 
Clara's  movements !  She  had  long  known 
that  Philip  was  more  than  indifferent  to  her, 
that  his  life  was  the  careless  and  dissipated 
one  of  most  young  men  of  his  age ;  but  that 
was  all.  Now  she  saw  him  publicly  in  the 
company  of  a  dancer — and  to  be  an  actress 
of  any  kind,  was,  according  to  her  ideas,  for 
a  woman  to  be  utterly  worthless — with  all 
the  world  seeing  him,  and  remarking,  as  she 
thought,  with  malicious  pleasure,  upon  the 
scene.  At  that  unfortunate  moment  some 
people  in  the  next  box  began  talking  about 
Earnscliffe.  They  were  perfect  strangers  to 
her,  of  course,  and  probably  not  even  no- 
ticed their  pale,  sickly-looking  neighbor. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  an  old  gentleman  of  the 
party,  in  answer  to  some  remark  she  had  not 
heard  ;  "he  married  a  daughter  of  Lord  St. 
Leger,  and  dearly  she  must  pay  for  her 
folly  in  marrying  a  genius.  Such  a  dissipa- 
ted life  as  he  leads — always  among  actors 
and  those  sort  of  people !  There,  he  is  at 
this  moment  sitting  by  Miss  Elmslie,  the 
dancer,  while  his  wife,  poor  creature !  is 
probably  watching  it  from  an  opposite  box." 

"Oh,  where  is  he? — where  is  Philip 
Earnscliffe?"  asked  a  young  girl,  leaning 
forward;  "  I  should  like  so  much  to  see 
him." 

The  gentleman  pointed  out  Earnscliffe,  and 
some  o:.e  remarked  on  Rose  Elmslie's  great 
beauty. 

"And  how  handsome  he  is!  and  how 
animated  he  looks  !  "  said  the  young  voice. 
*'  Is  his  wife  pretty,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  answered  another  lady.  "  I 
saw  her  once  at  a  concert.  Quite  a  pale, 
passee-looking  woman,  and  such  a  very  dis- 
contented expression  of  face  !  " 

The    blood   seemed   to    grow   like   ice  at 

t  Clara's    heart,  and   her   cheeks   were   white 

with  wounded    pride,  as  she   listened.     But 

she  did  not  leave  the  house  ;  she  sat  through- 


out the  whole  remainder  of  the  opera,  unno- 
ticed, alone ;  with  her  cold  hands  clasped 
tightly  together,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
Philip's  handsome,  animated  face.  She 
watched  his  attentive  manner,  his  attitude, 
and  could  fancy  the  very  words  he  was  say- 
ng ;  and  then — but  with  a  less  deep  setfrn — 
she  scanned  the  exquisite  features  of  his 
companion,  and  the  half-averted,  half-smiling 
way  she  listened  to  him. 

The  performance  went  on.  The  fullest 
horus,  and  the  whole  united  strength  of  the 
orchestra,  were  joined  in  the  finale  scene ; 
but  Clara  heard  it  not.  Those  few  hateful 
remarks  which  she  had  caught,  alone  rang  in 
her  ear ;  and  among  all  the  hundreds  of  hu- 
man beings  around  her,  she  only  saw  two 
faces — Miss  Elmslie's  and  Philip's.  No  wo- 
man ever  went  through  a  truer  martyrdom 
than  did  Lady  Clara,  during  that  evening. 

To  do  Philip  justice,  he  was  incapable  of 
willingly  outraging  his  wife's  feelings ;  and, 
had  he  seen  Clara,  would  that  second  have 
quitted  Rose  Ehnsjie.  But  he  believed  her 
at  home  as  she  had  told  him  she  would  be, 
and  had  never  even  glanced  towards  the  box 
she  occupied.  And  Rose  was  in  her  most 
charming,  winning  mood,  talking  so  prettily 
and  innocently,  and  saying  she  detested 

Count  B ,  and  how  much  she  wished  she 

could  leave  the  stage  for  ever.  No  wonder 
Philip's  attention  was  fully  taken  up,  and 
that  he  forgot  all  Neville's  odious  suspicions. 
He  was  looking  on  one  of  the  loveliest  forms 
ever  given  to  a  woman,  and  trying  to  believe 
t,hat  it  inclosed  a  similar  soul. 

The  opera  concluded  without  Clara  being 
aware  of  it,  and  as  there  was  no  ballet, 
every  one  rose  to  leave.  Then  she  saw 
Philip  help  Miss  Elmslie  to  draw  her  little 
dainty  cloak  over  her  white  shoulders,'  and 
hold  the  bouquet  for  her  while  she  fastened 
her  glove — paying  her  all  those  nameless  at- 
tentions which  are  more  galling  to  a  jealous 
woman  when  actually  witnessed,  than  it 
would  be  merely  to  hear  of  some  open  dere- 
liction on  the  part  of  her  husband.  Finally, 
they  both  left  the  box  together,  and  she  was 
reminded  that  she  too  must  leave  and  go 
home.  She  stood  up ;  but  her  head  was 
giddy,  and  her  limbs  felt  weak.  An  elderly 
person,  who  had  once  been  her  governess, 
and  still  lived  with  her  as  companion,  had  ac- 
companied Lady  Clara  to  the  theatre,  and 
she  was  forced  to  lean  upon  her  arm  for  sup- 
port ;  but  she  trembled  so  that  her  attendant 
inquired  if  she  were  ill. 

"  Let  us  wait  here  until  the  crush  is  over," 
Clara  answered,  reseating  herself  where  the 
shadow  of  the  box  prevented  her  from  being 
seen.  "The  heat  has  overcome  me,  and  I 
am  not  well  this  evening. 

They  remained  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  while  Clara  called  all  her  pride  to  aid 
in  the  struggle  to  nerve  herself;  and  then, 
when  there  was  less  chance  of  meeting  any 
one  she  knew,  she  drew  the  hood  of  her 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


cloak  over  her  face,  and  with  a  firmer  step 
entered  the  lobby,  which  was  now  nearly  va- 
cant. She  got  to  her  carriage  unnoticed, 
and  drove  home.  On  their  way  she  spoke  to 
her  companion  about  the  opera  in  a  cheerful 
voice,  and  her  hand  no  longer  trembled. 
Kvery  sign  of  weakness  was  over.  When 
she  reached  the  house  she  went  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  ordered  tea  to  be  brought, 
•with  her  usual  calm  manner;  and  when  the 
servant  re-entered,  he  found  his  mistress 
seated  at  the  table,  reading.  She  drank  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  attempted  to  eat,  but  the 
food  seemed  to  choke  her ;  and,  after  a 
sufficiently  long  pause  had  elapsed,  she  again 
rang  the  bell.  Then,  when  her  attendants 
had  finally  left  her  alone,  she  placed  herself 
near  the  fire  and  warmed  her  death-cold 
hands,  while  she  brooded  over  the  cruel 
shock  her  pride  had  sustained. 

That  she  would  leave  him — never  remain 
another  day  under  Philip's  roof — was  her 
first  fixed  resolution.  Many  wives,  even  where 
previous  affection  existed,  might,  in  all  their 
heat  of  wounded  feeling,  have  resolved  the 
same.  But  Clara's  was  not  a  nature  ever  to 
swerve  from  a  determined  course ;  and  as 
she  sat  thus  alone,  and  thought  of  all  the  re- 
marks that  Philip's  open  devotion  to  an  act- 
ress must  have  excited  among  her  own  friends 
that  evening,  her  feeling  towards  him 
strengthened  into  actual  hate,  and  her  lips 
grew  blanched  and  rigid  in  their  stern  ex- 
pi  ession. 

At  length  she  went  up  to  her  own  room, 
and  rang  for  her  maid  to  undress  her,  as  us- 
ual ;  but  when  the  girl  had  left  the  room,  she 
rose  again  from  her  bed,  and,  quietly  lock- 
ing the  door,  lit  her  candle,  and  partially 
dressed  herself  in  a  loose  morning  wrapper. 
Then  she  began  opening  her  drawers  and 
cases,  and  drew  from  them,  one  after  anoth- 
er, even-thing  of  value  that  she  could  con- 
sider as  in  any  way  belonging  to,  or  con- 
nected with,  her  marriage. 

One  or  two  notes  from  Philip,  written  dur- 
ing their  courtship,  a  locket  containing  his 
hair,  and  a  miniature  of  him,  she  laid  toge- 
tl  •!-.  ;n.«i  ga/ed  at  them  silently  for  a  few 
monr-iits.  Something  softer  came  over  her 
f  i  i-  a-  she  recalled  that  evening  when  he  had 
generously  sacrificed  himself  for  her  in  the 
impulse  of  bovish  kindness,  and  she  paused, 
and  thought  of  her  childish  days  when  her 
cousin  had  been  her  only  friend.  But  then 
siie  <'iw  hi'ii  ai:ain  as  she  had  done  only  an 
hour  before — lln>lic(l  and  animated,  and  whis- 
p'-riii'.r  to  IJnse  Klrnsli. — and  ri>ing  abruptly. 
she  Hung  all  the  little  relics  of  his  laUe  love 
upon  the  lire.  Tin-  flames  danced  ami 
cr.ic!;l,.d  over  them  in  a  second,  and  she 
watched  with  a  bitter  laii-jli  the  last  sparks 
•  lie  out  in  her  husband's  love-letters  before 
they  beeame  a  mere  cloud  of  grey  film. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  other  work.  The 
bracelets,  the  tiaras,  the  rinjrs — all  the  val- 
uable jewels  thai  she  had  received  from  I'hil- 


ip  or  his  uncle — she  divided  from  her  OTT 
trinkets,  and,  making  them  into  a  package, 
directed  them  to  "  Philip  Earnsclilfe,  Esq.," 
but  without  note  or  explanation  of  any 
kind ;  and  after  this  she  lay  down  in  her  be'd 
and  watched. 

In  an  hour  or  two  she  heard  Philip's  quiet 
step  ascending  the  stairs,  and  the  door  close 
of  his  dressing-room.  Her  face  grew  a 
shade  whiter  as  she  murmured — "  Yes — for 
the  last  time.1'  And  then  she  turned  her 
head  upon  her  pillow,  and  waited  for  the 
day. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LITTLE  thinking  of  all  the  next  twelve 
hours  had  in  store  for  him,  Philip  went  down 
early  the  following  morning  to  call  on  his 
uncle.  He  had  not  seen  his  wife,  who  was 
indeed  still  in  her  own  apartment,  ripening 
the  project  which  she  meant  in  the  course  of 
the  day  to  cany  into  execution — that  of 
leaving  Philip's  roof  for  ever.  When  Clara's 
passions  were  roused,  they  were  like  her  fa- 
ther's. Her  jealousy  of  the  previous  eve- 
ning— grown  even  more  bitter  during  the 
long  watches  of  the  night — had  deepened 
her  former  indifference  to  her  husband  into 
actual  loathing;  and  she  longed  for  the  mo- 
ment when  she  could  disclose  her  scorn  for 
him  with  her  own  lips.  Still  Clara  had  no 
wish  to  play  the  role  of  a  men-  jealous  wife; 
and  she  had  turned  over  in  her  mind  a  dozen 
different  ways  of  announcing  her  intention, 
without  fixing  upon  one  that  should  sutli- 
ciently  wound  his  pride,  yet  not  lower  her 
own.  She  shrunk,  too,  from  the  idea  of 
again  returning  to  her  parent's  hou<e  and 
the  companionship  of  Lady  St.  Lcger,  al- 
though she  felt  it  was  the  only  alternative 
she  could  look  forward  to  on  leaving  her  own 
home,  and  that  oven  this  was  better  than  re- 
maining longer  with  her  unfaithful  husband. 

Meanwhile  Philip  rode  slowly  along  into 
the  country.  It  was  a  grey  cold  day  ;  leaden 
masses  of  clouds  covered  the  whole  sky, 
borne  slowly  along  in  an  English  east  wind, 
and  the  trees  and  distant  country  seemed  one 
uniform  tint  of  brown.  It  may  have  been 
the  influence  of  the  weather,  or  perhaps  the 
natural  after  ilfects  of  the  piv\  ions  evening's 
excitement  ;  but  Philip's  spirits  were  unac- 
countably dcpres>eil  this  morning.  He 
seemed  unable  to  throw  off  tin-  weight  that 
was  upon  him.  and  did  not  once  ur-e  his 
hoi-M-  out  <>f  a  walk  until  he  reached  the 

lodu'c  of  Miles  Ivirnselill'e's  place,  where,  for 
thc'liiM  lime,  he  attempted  to  rouse  himself 
a  little,  and  cantered  up  the  avenue.  Mo 
found  old  Miles  OOnfitied  tO  the  house.  His 
illness  was  not  serious;  but  still  it  wa* 
enough  to  make  him  fretful  and  impatient. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


He  was  so  used  to  a  life  of  activity,  that  it 
galled  him  to  remain  idle  in  his  easy-chair, 
instead  of  being  out  and  busy  in  his  grounds  ; 
and  his  reception  of  his  nephew  was  not  par- 
ticularly amiable. 

*'  Well,  Phil,  I  thought  you  were  never 
coming  near  me  again  ;  every  week  I  see  less 
of  you  now.  But  you  knew  I  was  ill,  and 
therefore  it  was  your  duty  to  come,  whatever 
your  inclination  prompted.'1 

44  I  have  been  really  much  engaged,  un- 
cle," returned  Philip.  "  My  new  book,  yon 
know,  is  in  the  press,  and  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  in  correcting  proofs,  and  so  on  ; 
when  it  is  out  I  shall  have  more  leisure  time." 

"  Um — well,  I  hope  you  are  always  as 
profitably  engaged,  though  I  doubt  it,"  ans- 
wered Miles.  "  I  suppose  your  wife  takes 
up  a  great  deal  of  your  time,  too  ?  " 

"  Not  much  of  that,  sir.  I  think."  Philip 
saw  his  uncle's  humor,  and  prepared  himself 
for  a  pleasant  day  of  it. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  to  hertr  it.  As  you 
would  marry  at  your  age,  you  should  have 
tried  to  make  her  happy.  How  is  Clara?  " 

"  Much  the  same,  thank  you  :  she  is  nev- 
er very  strong,  and  stays  so  entirely  at  home, 
that  she  has  no  chance  of  getting  more  spir- 
its or  color." 

44  Philip,"  said  Miles,  sternly,  and  rising 
himself  up  grimly  on  one  elbow,  as  was  his 
habit  when  in  a  bad  temper,  "  I  believe  your 
wife  is  a  miserable  woman,  and  that  it  is  all 
your  fault.  You  are  just  as  dissipated,  and 
worse,  than  you  were  before  you  mar- 
ried. I  know  more  about  you  than  you 
think,  and  I  tell  you  frankly,  1  don't  admire 
your  conduct !  " 

44  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  my  folly  in 
marrying  so  young,  sir,"  returned  Philip, 
bitterly. 

After  a  pause,  Miles  went  on — 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  changed  face  as 
Clara's.  She  was  never  particularly  bloom- 
ing, but  now  she  looks  ten  years  older,  and 
so  wan  and  indifferent  to  everything.  What 
is  the  matter  with  her  Philip  ?  Perhaps 
there  is  a  prospect  of  my  having  a  grand- 
nephew,  eh  ?  " 

44  God  forbid!"  said  Philip,  hastily. 

'*  Well,  a  mighty  pious  aspiration,  cer- 
tainly. People  in  general  are  pleased  at  the 
idea  of  having  children." 

44  Aye,  sir,  when  there  is  a  home  for  them 
to  be  brought  up  in  !  " 

44  And  have  you  no  home,  Philip?  Do 
you  want  a  larger  house  and  establishment, 
or  are  you  too  proud  to  call  yours  a  home, 
because  you  merely  maintain  it  upon  your 
allowance  ?  You  know  well  that  my  money 
will  be  all  yours  at  my  death,  and  that  what- 
ever you  or  Clara  want  vou  have  only  to  ask 
for." 

44  No,"  answered  Philip;  "you  are  al- 
ready too  generous.  1  require  nothing 
more  in  the  world  that  money  can  purchase. 
When  I  spoke  of  home,  I  meant  that  union 


of  heart  and  feeling  which  never  has  been, 
and  never  can  be,  between  my  wife  and  my- 
self If  Heaven  had  given  me  a  child,  it 
would  have  been,  of  course,  brought  up  by 
its  mother,  and  taught  from  its  birth  to  be  as 
indifferent  to  me  as  she  is  herself— indeed,  I 
sometimes  think  Clara's  feelings  toward  me 
are  now  those  of  actual  dislike — " 

44  And  whose  doing  is  all  this,  Phil?"  in- 
quired Miles.  4'She  maybe  cold,  I  don't 
deny  it ;  it  is  her  nature  ;  and  you  know  that 
you  were  marrying  the  daughter  of  Lord 
'and  Lady  St.  Leger.  But  it  is  not  Clara's 
fault  that,  as  a  married  man,  you  continue 
your  olcl  bachelor  life,  and  are  always  philan- 
dering about  after  actresses  and  such  rub- 
bish, when  you  should  be  at  home  with  her, 
or  coming  to  see  me.  Hugh  !  hugh  !  "  He 
coughed  dismally,  and  plunged  the  poker 
into  the  fire,  before  returning  to  the  charge  ; 
but,  greatly  to  Philip's  relief,  who  did  not 
relish  the  tone  of  his  uncle's  lecture,  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  entrance  of  the  servant  with 
newspapers. 

44  Shall  I  read  to  you?  "  he  added,  taking 
up  the  Times. 

44  Yes.  I  am  getting  so  blind  I  csnnot 
even  read  for  myself  now " — (he  had  won- 
derfully good  eyes  for  his  time  of  life,  but 
could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  use  specta- 
cles)— 44and  try  to  find  something  worth 
listening  to." 

Philip  accordingly  began,  and  had  read 
the  leading-article  half  through,  when  Miles 
interrupted  him  with — 

44  Can't  you  find  anything  but  that  political 
stuff,  nephew  ?  What  do  I  care  about  Lord 
John,  or  Lord  Aberdeen,  or  which  of  them 
gets  the  head  place  in  the  mismanagement 
of  the  country  !  Do  find  something  of  gen- 
eral interest." 

4'  The  parliamentary  report?  " 

44  Worse  still?  There  is  meaning,  at 
least,  in  what  the  Times  writes,  but  none  in 
those  endless  speeches ;  and,  besides,  I  hate 
all  that  sickening  trash  of  4  the  honorable 
member  to  my  right,1  and  4  my  noble  friend 
in  the  opposition.1  Read  me  the  city  ar- 
ticle." 

44  Stay,  sir,  here  is  the  arrival  of  the  In- 
dian mail,"  said  Philip,  as  he  turned  the 
paper. 

*•  Well,  then,  read  that,  of  course.  Why 
did  you  not  find  it  at  once  ?  " 

Philip  glanced  his  eye  rapidly  down  the 
column  before  commencing  aloud,  and  aftor 
some  unimportant  paragraphs,  some  name 
arrested  his  attention.  He  began  to  read, 
and  his  hand  trembled  a  little,  then  he  flush- 
ed deeply,  but,  as  he  went  on,  every  particle 
of  color  left  his  face,  and  he  became  deadly 
pale. 

"  What  ails  you,  Phil,  that  you  change 
color  so  ?  "  said  his  uncle,  rising,  all  his  kind 
manner  returning  in  a  moment. 

4'  You  are  ill,  my  boy,u  and  he  advanced 
toward;  him. 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


Philip  grasped  the  paper  tighter,  as  though 
to  prevent  the  other  from  reading  it,  and, 
looking  np  in  his  face,  faltered  out — 

"  Unele,  there  is  news — bad    news — from 

Bombay "     Here  he  broke  down.  Miles's 

faee  grew  white  as  his  nephew's,  and  an  in- 
stinctive presentiment  flashed  across  him. 
But  the  old  man's  brave  nature  did  not 
falter. 

'"'  Give  me  the  paper,  Philip,"  he  said,  in 
his  usual  firm  voice.  •*  I  can  read  it  my- 
self.11 

Philip  let  him  take  it  passively  from  him 
and  covered  his  face,  while  Miles  read  the 
fatal  paragraph.  It  was  the  intelligence  of 
the  failui'e  of  one  of  the  largest  Bombay 
banks,  in  which  the  greatest  part  of  Mr. 
Earnsclrffe's  immense  capital  still  floated, 
and  Philip  knew  that  he  was  comparatively 
ruined.  He  dared  not  look  up,  but  kept 
hi*  face  still  buried  in  his  hands,  without  the 
courage  to  speak,  when  a  sound  made  him 
start  in  terror  to  his  uncle's  side. 

It  was  a  fearful  sound — half  sob,  half 
groan— wrung  from  the  bosom  of  an  iron 
man  in  his  first  moment  of  despair,  and 
Philip  prayed  that,  he  might  never  hear  the 
like  again.  He  looked  in  his  uncle's  face ; 
it  was  white,  and  drawn  as  though  paralysed, 
and  under  a  hideous  apprehension,  Philip 
cried — "Oh!  speak  to  me — one  word  dear 
uncle — only  one  word  !  " 

"It  is  all  gone,"  said  Miles,  in  a  low, 
hoarse  whisper.  "  I  am  a  beggar;  help  me 
to  a  chair,  and  leave  me.  I  would  be 
alone." 

Philip  obeyed  him  instantly.  He  knew 
that  strong,  proud  nature  would  shrink  from 
any  eye  being  upon  him  in  his  agony,  and 
having  assisted  him  to  his  chair,  he  walked 
to  the  deep  bay  window  of  the  library,  and 
remained  there  silent  for  almost  an  "hour. 
During  all  this  time  Miles  Earnscliffe  never 
moved — once  only  did  he  groan.  He  sat 
alone  in  his  ruin,  as  he  had  been  in  the  weary 
road  to  success,  and  the  iron  entered  into  his 
soul  in  silence. 

And  Philip — in  that  terrible  hour,  what 
wen-  his  thoughts.  His  own  fall  from  being 
Miles  Karnscliffe's  heir  to  poverty  —  the 
taunts  in  his  own  household — the  falling  off 
of  friends — did  all  this  cross  his  mind?  Not 
om-e.  Even  had  he  cared  for  money,  he 
could  have  had  no  selfish  thought  then.  He 
only  saw  the  old  man's  bowed  head  and 
clutched  hands  ;  he  only  thought  of  his  gen- 
erous protector  humbled  from  his  high  es- 
tate, and  in  hi^  old  age  brought  to  the  pov- 
erty he  had  always  loathed  ;  and  slowly 
large  tear-  rolled  (inwn  Philip's  pale  cheeks, 
as  he  >tood  silently  ga/ing  at  his  uncle. 

•Suddenly  A.ilcs  looked  up. 

"Coiue  here,  boy."  Hi-  was  at  his  side 
in  a  second.  "You  may  well  weep,  you 
that  were  to  Ixj  my  heir.  You  are  ab«""Mr, 
Philip  " 

"Oh,  uncle!  I  do  not  think  of  myself;  I 


think  of  you  only.  You  have  been  my  pro- 
tector, my  father — you  have  done  all  for  me  ; 
and  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  save  you 
from  this." 

The  old  man's  stony  gaze  softened  a  little 
at  Philip's  warm  and  loving  expression. 

"  Shall  you  still  care  for  me,  lad,  in  my 
ruin  ?  "  he  said,  helplessly. 

Philip  was  on  his  knees,  .and  sei/ing  the 
cold,  withered  hand,  he  pressed  it  to  hia 
lips — 

•'  As  God  is  my  Judge,  Twill,  sir  !  I  may 
have  been  selfish — careless  of  vou  in  my  own 
hour  of  success — but  you  shall  now  know  all 
my  affection  for  you.  You  received  me  a 
friendless  little  child— " 

"Aye;  but  I  turned  from  your  father, 
Phil,"  he  interrupted,  huskily;  "  and  I  have 
never  seen  Herbert's  face  so  plainly  as  in 
the  last  hour.  I  mind  well  the  letter  he 
wrote  me  in  his  distress,  and  how  I  answered 
it — how  I  scorned  his  honest  poverty,  and 
insulted  him  and  his  wife.  Since  then,  I 
have  shut  my  heart  to  the  poor  in  my  pride 
of  wealth,  and  now — I  am  judged." 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  the  poor  of  late 
years,  sir,"  answered  Philip.  "  You  have 
built  hospitals — you  have  founded  schools ; 
and  many  a  widow  and  orphan  have  learned 
to  bless  your  name.  And,  oh!  whatever 
self-reproach  you  may  feel  with  regard  to 
any  former  action  towards  my  parents,  that 
action  is  more  than  cancelled  by  all  you  have 
done  for  their  son.  You  have  given  me  ed- 
ucation, and  I  can  now  make  my  own  way 
in  the  world." 

He  spoke  so  warmly  and  hopefully,  that 
old  Miles's  features  gradually  lost  something 
of  their  frightful  rigidity;  and  clasping  his 
hands,  he  thanked  Heaven  that,  amid  the 
wreck  of  all  his  worldly  fortunes,  there  was 
still  left  to  him  his  nephew's  noble  heart. 

"God  bless  you,  Phil!"  he  said  very 
softly. 

They  remained  long  together,  talking — 
not  of  the  storm  which  had  just  burst  over 
them,  but  of  old  happy  days  ;  of  the  summer 
excursions  they  had  made  together;  of  the 
thousand  little  events  of  Philip's  boyhood. 
There  is  a  strange  proneness  in  human  be- 
ings to  take  refuge,  under  the  first  shock  of 
any  sudden  calamity,  in  the  peaceful  remem- 
brance of  the  past  ;  as  though,  in  that  brief 
hour,  the  heart  tried  to  concentrate  all  that 
life  has  known  of  sweetness,  before  attempt- 
ing to  confront  the  stern  and  present  reality. 
And  this  is  espcei.-illy  the  ca-e  when,  as 
with  Miles  r'arnselifle,  no  vision  of  the  fu- 
ture can  oiler  anything  half  so  bright  aixain. 

Putt  tin-  pa>*ed.  after  a  time,  He  r«- 
lap-ed  into  vacant,  silence,  and  then  Marling 
(hough  thetiuth  had  only  ju-t  burst 
in  all  its  fulness  upon  him,  exrlaimed — "  I 
will  not  believe  ii  !  What .  all  ur""e  !— the 
labors  of  thirty  years!  Read  it  again,  Phil; 
it  is  f-iKc,  a  newspaper  lie;  1  am  not  a  beg- 
gar. Head  it,  I  say  !  " 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


47 


And  he  fixed  a  look,  almost  of  fierce  hope, 
upon  his  nephew,  as  he  again  took  the  paper, 
which  went  to  Philip's  heart. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  its  correctness,  sir, 
I  fear,"  he  replied,  in  a  low  voice,  after 
reading  the  paragraph  once  more.  "  And 
we  must  not  buoy  ourselves  up  on  any  frail 
hopes  of  that  kind.  But  neither  will  you  be, 
by  any  means,  brought  to  what  the  world  calls 
poverty.  Your  estate  in  Yorkshire,  and 
this  very  house,  form  in  themselves  a  for- 
tune that  to  many  a  man  would  seem  riches." 

"  I  shall  not  be  an  actual  beggar,  nephew, 
I  know,"  answered  Miles,  bitterly.  **  But 
think  what  I  was ;  dukes  glad  to  sit  at  my 
table ;  even  royalty  smiling  at  me ;  an  earl 
proud  to  ma,rry  his  daughter  into  my  family. 
Good  God,  Philip ! "  he  exclaimed,  the 
thought  crossing  him  for  the  first  time, 
"what  will  those  people  say  to  my  ruin? 
and  your  wife  !  Ah !  there  lies  the  deepest 
of  my  humiliation." 

Philip  felt  this,  too,  fully  as  deeply  as  his 
uncle ;  but  he  said  little  on  the  subject,  and 
merely  observed  that  it  was  not  unlikely 
Clara's  character  might  shine  out  in  his  ad- 
versity far  more  brightly  than  it  had  hitherto 
done.  "  It  was  woman's  nature,"  he  said, 
"  to  become  more  soft  and  gentle  in  time  of 
trial ;  and  after  the  unvarying  kindness 
shown  to  her  by  his  uncle,  it  was  impossible 
for  her  to  entertain  any  feeling  but  that  of 
sorrow  for  him  now ;  and  as  to  the  St.  Leg- 
ers,"  added  Philip,  "  it  matters  little  to/us 
what  they  do  or  say.  They  will  merely  fol- 
low in  the  track  of  the  other  worldly  ac- 
quaintance who  will  fall  away  at  the  first 
breath  of  our  altered  fortunes." 

Pie  stayed  long,  and  his  kindly  consolation 
was  some  comfort  to  Miles,  who  gradually 
became  more  natural  in  his  manner,  less 
helpless,  and  more  bitter,  which,  for  him, 
was  the  best  possible  sign;  and  at  length 
the  unyielding  spirit  which,  through  years  of 
drudgery  and  disappointment  had  never 
flinched,  again  began  to  rise  with  an  elastici- 
ty wonderful  in  so  old  a  man.  By  the  time 
Philip  left  him  he  was  deep  in  accounts  in  his 
study,  calculating  upon  the  wreck  of  his  for- 
tunes, and,  with  his  old  business  habits,  al- 
ready writing  letters  to  his  different  agents, 
and  planning  for  the  realisation  of  the  small 
sum  which  remained  to  him. 

**  Well,  good  bye,  Phil ! "  were  his  last 
words.  "  And  if  your  wife  and  grand 
friends  cast  you  off  in  our  ruin,  return  to  me. 
I  shall  still  have  enough  for  both  of  us." 


i  CHAPTER  XHI. 

IT  was  dusk  when  Philip  returned  to  town  ; 
but  this  time  he  rode  on  fast,  and  lingered 
not  on  the  road.  The  storm,  whose  distant 


coming  he  had  instinctively  felt  that  morning, 
had  burst ;  and  now,  with  his  head  erect, 
and  something  of  the  same  feeling  in  his 
breast  which  as  a  boy  had  made  him  love  to 
battle  with  the  waves,  he  prepared  to  stem 
the  real  sea  of  life  under  its  new  aspect. 

Totally  apart  from  his  sympathy  with  his 
uncle,  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that 
Philip's  feeling  were  happy  ones.  His  exist- 
ence had  hitherto  been  barren  of  many  deep 
emotions — for  his  age,  he  had  had  too  few 
struggles  with  difficulty — all  that  he  had 
wished  for  he  had  won.  "Xow,"  he  felt, 
with  a  thrill  of  conscious  power  in  himself, 
"  my  life  begins  in  earnest.  I  am  Philip 
Earnscliffe,  the  author,  not  Miles  Earnscliffe's 
heir.  I  must  depend  upon  myself  alone, 
and  fight  my  own  battle."  And  his  eye  di- 
lated at  the  thought. 

He  rode  on,  and  was  soon  on  the  streets 
of  London,  when  the  man  of  fortune,  or 
beggared  outcast,  become  alike,  in  the  im- 
mense surge  of  human  life,  an  unnoticed 
unit;  and  Philip  thought  that  everything 
around  seemed  altered.  The  yellow  lamps 
struggling  through  the  dense  fog — the  con- 
fused roar  of  life  in  which  no  one  sound 
predominates — the  shops  with  their  gaudy 
windows  and  sickly  apprentices  behind  the 
counter;  but,  above  all,  the  aspect  of  his 
fellow-men  about  him,  struck  him  differently 
to  what  it  had  all  done  hundreds  of  times 
before.  He  looked  at  the  miserable  beings 
on  the  pavement — the  common  street-beg- 
gar, the  greasy  pickpocket,  the  black-coated 
hypocrite  with  tracts,  the  drunken  lad  of 
seventeen — men,  lounging  idle  and  desper- 
ate, who  should  have  been,  like  himself,  in 
the  very  prime  of  life — little  children  with 
the  expression  of  premature  age  upon  their 
stolid  features,  and  attempting  to  extort 
alms  with  the  whine  of  already-practised 
imposture;  and,  worst  of  all,  girlish  faces, 
where  the  lingering  traces  of  youth  and  wo- 
manhood were  all  blurred  over  with  bold 
vice,  or  sunken  in  the  approach  of  a  hopeless 
death.  And  Philip  felt—"  And  I,  with  all 
these  fallen  beings  around  me,  and  the  intel- 
lect and  powers  God  has  given  me,  how  have 
I  fulfilled  my  mission,  or  attempted  to  raise 
the  lot  of  one  fellow-man  ?  By  writing 
books  for  society,  and  verses  for  albums  !  It 
is  indeed  time  some  shock  should  come,  to 
rouse  me  from  my  wasted  existence  ! " 

Then  he  looked  at  another  class  of  men ; 
clerks  from  the  city,  artists  from  their  stud- 
ios, professors  from  their  lectures,  who  were 
all  hurrying  to  their  homes  through  the 
dusky  streets ;  and  he  felt  with  pride,  that 
he  should  now  be  one  of  them — one  of  those 
who  work,  and  in  some  way  contribute  to 
the  general  good  of  the  world. 

The  magnificent  horse  he  rode  did  not 
seem  his  own ;  when  he  arrived  at  the  door 
of  his  house  in  Park  Lane,  he  felt  that  it 
was  his  home  no  longer,  and  almost  rejoiced 
in  the  thought.  •'  I  was  bom  to  work,"  he 


48 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


said,  "  and  all  the  false  advantages  of  rich- 
es and  position  have  been  only  bars  to  my 
success." 

He  enquired  in  a  cheerful  tone  for  Lady 
Clara,  and,  on  hearing  that  she  was  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  alone,  proceeded  at  once 
up-stairs.  But  the  bravest  man  in  the  world 
is  not  always  so  in  his  own  household  :  and 
every  step  that  Philip  ascended,  he  seemed 
to  feel  his  courage  ebb  in  an  inverse  ratio. 
By  the  time  he  reached  the  first  landing?,  he 
had  painted  Clara  to  himself,  in  one  of  her 
coldest,  most,  cynical  moods  ;  and  when  he 
got  to  the  drawing-room  door,  would  sooner 
have  announced  his  fallen  fortunes  to  every 
acquaintance  in  London  at  once,  than  in  this 
Ute-a-Ute  interview  to  his  wife. 

He  opened  the  door,  and  saw  her.  Not 
cowering  before  the  fire  as  usual  in  the  dark  ; 
but  seated  at  the  table,  very  erect,  very  well 
dressed,  and  writing;  and  Philip  took  this 
as  a  bad  omen. 

Clara  had  made  all  her  arrangements  dur- 
ing his  absence,  and  had  had  a  long  conver- 
sation with  her  mother,  after  which — much 
against  Lady  St.  Leger's  will — it  had  been 
decided  that  she  should  return  that  evening 
to  her  father's  house.  Lady  St.  Leger  hated 
the  vulgar  iclat  of  such  a  proceeding,  and 
was  also  by  no  means  anxious  for  her  daugh- 
ter's companionship. 

'*  You  are  acting  madly.  Clara,"  she  urged, 
**  and  will  bitterly  repent  this  false  step. 
You  say  you  do  not  love  Philip  ;  well,  I  sup- 
pose you  never  did,  but  still  he  is  your  hus- 
band, and  some  day  will  inherit  his  uncle's 
fortune.  Now,  you  know  that  you  have  no 
settlements,  and  therefore,  in  leaving  him, 
ou  at  once  forfeit  all  chance  of  benefiting 
y  the  old  man^  death — for  it  is  not  likely 
Philip  would  ask  you  to  return  to  him  then 
— and  besides,  all  these  things  are  bad  in 
themselves  ;  anything  approaching  to  a  scene 
or  publishing  her  domestic  grievances  to  the 
world,  should  be  avoided  by  a  woman  of 
good  taste.  Your  husband's  talents  secure 
him  a  place  in  society,  and  your  position  as 
bis  wife  is  far  better  than  it  will  ever  be,  as 
Lord  St.  Leger's  neglected  daughter.  Young 
handsome,  and  rich,  every  one  will  be  on  his 
side ;  and  to  me  falls  the  ridiculous  rbh  ol 
chaperoning  a  married  daughter — and  yoi 
really  have  aged  terribly  lately — who  could 
not  agree  with  her  own  husband.11 

"  You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest,  moth 
er,"  answered  Clara;  "  I  shall  never  appca 
in  society,  or  interfere  with  you  in  any  way 
I  only  ask  a  place  in  your  house,  instead  ol 
living  alone;  at,  which  the  world,  I  suppose 
would  cavil,  old  and  plain  though  1  have  lie 
come.  P,nt  yon  si-em  to  overlook,  entirely,' 
she  added,  bitterly,  "my  reasons  for  leaving 
Mr.  Etrntcliffis." 

'•  Not  in  tin-  least:  and  it  is  that  whir' 
makes  it  more  absurd.  You  see;,  our  hus 
band  at  the  opera,  in  tin-  same  ho-,  with  a 
actress,  or  dancer,  or  sonic  per.-'  n  of  the 


E 


and,  and  yon  immediately  draw  all  sorts  of 
Conclusions  from  this  trivial  circumstance, 
ind  then  decide  upon  the  grave  step  of  a  sep- 
iration.  What  can  be  more  natural  than 
or  a  young  man  of  his  age  to  lie  led  into 
ueh  society  ?  what  more  usual  ?  Why, 
lalf  the  wives  of  London  might  leave  their 
lomes  for  such  a  ridiculous  cause  ;  and  your 
not  caring  about  Philip,  makes  it  doubly  in- 
comprehensible to  me,  why  you  should  be 
ealous !  If  you  had  gone  more  into  the 
world,  as  T  advised  you  from  the  first,  and 
brmed  friendships  and  amusements  for  your- 
self, vou  would  have  been  happy  without 
troubling  yourself  about  his  proceedings. 
Look  at  me,  Clara!  do  you  think  I  shouM 
ook  as  I  do  now,  if  T  had  worried  myself 
at  every  neglect  or  indiscretion  of  my  hus- 
band as  you  do?  Yet  I  was  much  more  nt- 
tached  to  your  father  than  you  are  to  Philip  !  n 
Clara  did  look  at  her  mother's  still  fresh, 
well-preserved  face ;  and  she  answered  with 
a  compressed  lip,  "Yes,  it  would  have  been 
far  better  for  me  to  be  like  you,  but  I  am 
not !  " 

No  arguments  of  Lady  St.  Le<rer  having 
prevailed,  it  was  at  length  derided,  much  to 
her  annoyance,  that,  she  should  expect  her 
daughter  that  evening;  and  Clara  awaited 
Philip's  return,  to  communicate  her  intentions 
to  him  personally.  He  remained  away  so 
long,  however,  that  she  at  length  thought  he 
would  not  return  for  the  day.  and  luid  just 
begun  a  letter  to  him,  when  she  heard  his 
knock  at.  the  door.  She  felt  a  momentary 
tremor  at  the  sound  ;  but  quickly  recovered 
her  composure  and  was  completely  nerved 
for  the  approaching  scene,  when  Philip  en- 
tered the  room.  The  opening  of  the  attack 
she  left  to  chance,  having  failed  in  planning 
any  to  her  own  satisfaction.  She  had  quite 
resolved  he  should  never  know  that  jealousy 
of  a  dancer  was  the  immediate  cause  of  her 
resolution  :  and  she  would  therefore  be  oMi<r- 
ed  to  urge  it  on  the  general  grounds  of  his 
neglect  and  her  indifference. 

"  Good  evening,  Clara."' 

She  laid  down  her  pen.  and  looked  at  him. 
He  was  very  pale  ;  and  his  features  were  set 
as  though  under  the  influence  of  some  strong 
emotion* 

"He  actually  cowers  before  me!"  she 
thought:  and,  with  a  scornful  half-smile,  re- 
turned his  salutation. 

"  If  she  has  any  of  a  woman's  he<t  na- 
ture left,  she  will  soften  now,"  thought 
Philip  ;  and  advancing  to  her  side,  he  stoop- 
ed ami  kissed  her  forehead.  Rut  she  turned 
haughtily  from  his  caress,  which  to  her  seem- 
ed only 'a  mean  attempt  at  conciliation,  and 
remarked—"  Yon  look  agitated,  Mr.  K.-mi*- 
elille:  to  what  am  I  l<»  :itlrilmte  all  this  sud- 
den mitbreak  <>f  nirccliou  M 

The  chilling   t<>"«'  <><'  the<e    words,  and  the 

look    that    accompanied   them,    froze   back 

Philip's    half-awakened    feelings   of  kii.dness. 
He  seated  himself  on  the  other  side  of  the 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


49 


fire  and  remained  silent,  considering  how  lie 
should  best  announce  his  uncle1s  ruin  to  his 
cold,  worldly  companion. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Oaks  to-day,  Clara." 
She  did  not  answer.  "  My  uncle  is  not  well, 
and  is  confined  to  the  house ;  he  made  many 
kind  inquiries  for  you." 

"  Really,  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  Mr. 
Earnscliffe.  And  these  kind  inquiries  you 
were  doubtless  able  to  answer  fully,  as  you 
know  so  much  of  my  health  and  life." 

"  Oh,  Clara  !  "  said  Philip,  suddenly  look- 
ing very  full  at  her  as  he  spoke  ;  "do  not  re- 
proach me  to-day ;  I  have  had  much  to  bear 
already." 

"  Indeed  !  May  I  ask  you  not  to  commu- 
nicate any  particulars  of  your  trials  to  me  ? 
they  must  be  of  a  nature  in  which  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  have  any  interest !  "  and 
LtJf-ri?ing  towards  the  light,  she  looked  at 
her  watch. 

Philip  was  stung  with  this  assumption  of 
indifference,  and  answered — "  They  are  of  a 
nature,  Lady  Clara,  in  which  you  must  take 
an  interest,  and,  if  not  told  you  by  my  lips, 
you  will  hear  them  from  a  hundred  others  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh  !  perhaps  your  new  book — you  have 
been  writing  one,  I  believe — is  a  failure  ;  if 
so,  the  event,  of  course,  is  not  so  serious  to 
the  world  and  to  me,  as  to  yourself." 

He  did  not  answer :  but  fixed  his  eyes — 
more  in  sorrow  than  with  a  harsher  feeling — 
upon  her  face  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  said,  at  length,  and 
as  though  to  himself,  "  that  she  should  have 
fixed  upon  this  day  as  a  fitting  time  to  de- 
clare her  indifference  to  me."  And,  even  as 
he  spoke,  something  in  the  soft  tone  of  his 
voice  thrilled  through  her  heart.  But  the 
better  feeling  soon  passed. 

"  As  well  this  day  as  another,"  she  return- 
ed. "  The  fact  has  long  been  so— why 
should  I  conceal  it  any  longer  ?  As  you  have 
thrown  off  the  mask,  so  may  I." 

Philip  scarcely  heard  her  words.  For  the 
stM'ond  time  in  his  married  life,  the  image  of 
his  rough,  unpolished  uncle  rose  up  brightly 
before  him,  compared  with  that  of  his  high- 
born wife  ;  and  he  remembered  how,  amidst 
his  own  anguish,  the  old  man  had  still  spok- 
en kindly  to  him. 

"  Clara,"  he  resumed,  "  I  have  no  wish 
to  deny  any  of  my  errors,  or  that  you  have 
grave  cause  for  complaint.  But  remember 
one  tiling,  whatever  my  conduct  has  been, 
my  uncle  has  ever  felt  kindly  towards  you ; 
and  even  this  morning " 

"  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  Mr.  Miles 
Earnscliffe's  kindness?"  she  interrupted, 
haughtily;  "and  for  what  object  are  you 
wasting  these  sentimental  speeches  upon  me  ? 
You  mistake  me  strangely,  sir,  if  you  think 
that  I  caie  for  your  uncle's  regard,  or  his 
wealth  either  !  "  ' 

"  And  you  mistake  me"  cripd  Philip, 
starting  to  his  feet.  •«  You  mistake  me 


strangely  if  you  think  that  for  my  own  sake 
I  am  endeavoring  to  soften  a  heari  like  yours. 
I  was  preparing  to  tell  you,  madam,  of  the 
ruin  of  an  honest  man.  You  need  sneer  no 
longer  at  my  uncle's  wealth — he  has  lost  it. 
Yes,  it  is  true ;  and  I,  Lady  Clara,  arn  no 
longer  the  heir  you  married,  but  a  poor  strug- 
gling author."  And  folding  his  arms,  he  look- 
ed her  full  in  the  face. 

She  turned  very  pale,  and  did  not  answer. 
For  only  one  second  her  better  nature  made 
her  long  to  fall  upon  his  neck,  and  return 
to  him  in  his  hour  of  trial — then  the  impulse 
passed.  She  was  incapable  of  judging  a 
generous  nature  like  Philip's  ;  she  had  known 
none  but  people  steeped  in  worldliness  from 
her  very  cradle  ;  and,  in  his  altered  manner, 
she  only  saw  some  selfish  project  upon  her 
father's  wealth.  Now,  she  thought,  she- 
could  reject  him — wound  him  to  the  very 
quick — without  betraying  her  own  jealousy, 
or  lowering  herself.  And  with  her  most 
cutting  smile  she  remarked — 

"  Oh  !  then  this  is  the  cause  of  your  return- 
ed affection,  Mr.  Earnscliffe." 

"  Hear  me,  CLra,"  said  Philip,  with  grave 
dignity.  "  Under  my  fallen  prospects,  I  feel 
that,  in  spite  of  the  cold  unnatural  way  in 
which  it  has  been  your  choice  that  we  should 
live  together,  you  are  still  my  wife.  You 
married  me  under  different  circumstances, 
and  for  your  sake,  next  to  his  own,  I  grieve 
most  at  my  uncle's  ruin.  You  never  loved 
me ;  and  it  may  appear  hard  that  your  un- 
happy married  life  should  be  deprived  also 
of  the  prospect  of  wealth,  under  which  it  was 
undertaken.  These  considerations,  I  confess, 
gave  me  a  return  of  warmer  feelings  towards 
you  which  you  reject;  and  if  you  see  in  this 
any  subject  for  ridicule,  I  can  only  pitv  your 
own  hard  nature,  not  be  ashamed  of  my  mo- 
tives." 

But  Clara  only  heard  his  allusion  to  her 
marrying  him  for  money,  and  her  eyes  flash- 
ed fire. 

"  You  do  well,"  she  cried,  "  to  remind  me, 
now,  in  your  ruin,  of  my  marriage  with  you  ! 
You  do  well  to  remind  me  of  my  motives, 
now  that  they  are  rendered  fruitless  !  Yes  !l 
I  married  you,  as  I  thought,  to  save  mr 
father  from  disgrace — although  in  that,  too,  [ 
was  mistaken,  for  I  know  how  you  have  turn- 
ed from  him  in  his  difficulties.  I  married  you 
simply  and  exclusively  for  money.  I  never 
loved  you — no — not  in  the  moment  when  I 
consented  to  become  your  wife.  You  hav3' 
heard  it  all,  now  !  " 

"  And  I,  Lady  Clara,"  replied  Philip, 
Stung  out  of  all  generosity  ;  "do  you  know 
why  I  married  you  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,"  she  answered,  her  blue  eyes 
filled  with  lurid  rage.  But  even  yet  he  for- 
bore. 

"No,  madam,  I  will  not;  your  mother 
will  do  so  far  better  than  I  can.  I  will  say 
that,  even  in  my  marriage,  the  most  bitterly 
regretted  act  of  my  life,  I  would  not  ex- 


50 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


change  the  motives  which  prompted  me  for 
your  own  " 

"  Go  on,  sir,"  she  cried,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  said  ;  "  go  on — and  tell  me  that, 
deluded  by  my  mothers  falsehood,  you  mar- 
ried me  from  pity.  I  will  hear  all  that  you 
have  to  say,  and  then — then  you  shall  hear 
me." 

"  Clara,"  returned  Philip,  and  he  advanced 
a  step  towards  her,  his  face  softening  once 
more,  "  still  I  ask  you  to  forbear.  This  is  not 
a  time  for  recriminations ;  now,  if  ever,  we 
should  remember  all  that  we  have  once  vowed 
to  each  other.  I  have  erred  against  you — I 
have  neglected  you — and  I  confess  it.  For- 
give me return  to  me — return  to  me  in 

in  my  poverty — and  forget  the  first  cold  year 
of  our  married  life !  "  and  he  held  out*  his 
hand  to  his  wife. 

She  recoiled  from  him,  and,  with  all  the 
expression  of  concentrated  scorn  that  could 
be  thrown  into  look  and  voice,  replied, 
•*  Stay,  sir,  do  not  degrade  yourself  by  any 
more  mean  attempts  to  conciliate  me.  I  un- 
derstand your  object  well,  and  scorn  it  and 
you.  Hitherto,  in  your  pride  of  plebeian 
wealth,  you  have  not  cared  to  court  me  for 
my  father's  money ;  but  now,  in  your  ruin, 
you — aye,  and  your  uncle  too—will  both 
fawn  and  cringe,  and  lick  the  dust  before  the 
very  woman  whom  you  insulted  yesterday 
with  your  neglect.  Your  uncle " 

But  Philip's  iron  grasp  upon  her  arm  arrest- 
ed her.  Every  gentler  feeling  was  dead  for 
ever  in  his  breast  towards  her ;  and  his  dark 
eyes  kindled  again  with  passion  at  her 
wonts. 

"  Stop,  madam,"  he  said,  his  voice  low 
and  ominously  calm  ;  "I  command  you  to 
Hop  and  hear  me.  You  have  just  uttered 
thoughts  that  could  only  have  had  birth  in 
the  heart  of  Lord  St.  Leger's  daughter ;  and 
you  know  that  your  imputation  is  untrue.  As 
you  won,  so  you  discard  me — with  a  false- 
hood ;  and  it  is  a  worthy  ending  of  our  hate- 
ful union.  My  uncle,  Lady  Clara,  and  my- 
self, are  men  of  honor,  and  would  both  of 
us  sooner  starve  than  accept  money  which 
had  been  tainted  by  passing  through  the 
hands  of  your  father.  You  can  return  to 
him,  and  to  his  wealth,  at  once.  From  this 
moment  you  are  no  longer  my  wife,  even  in 
the  e\es  of  tin:  world;  and  the  day  of  my 
f;i II  from  fortune  will  be  the  sweetest  of  my 
lile,  as  the  last  of  my  connection  with 
you  !  " 

They  were  the  harshest  words  ever  spoken 
by  J'liilij)  to  a  woman,  ami  could  only  have 
been  wiimg  from  him  by  Clara's  insult  to  his 
uncle — but  his  blood  was  on  fire,  and  he 
heeded  not  \\hat  he  said.  I'.oth  remained 
Hleni  lor  -<mie  seconds;  then  Clara  rose. 

"  I)ii  n<>t  think,  Mr.  Larnsi  lifl'e,  that  you 
are  the  fir-t  to  propose  this  step."  >he  .-aid 
"  My  arrant  menfs  are  already  made  for 
quitting  your  lion-e  ;  :  ml  mv  parents  are 
prep. in  d  to  receive  me  this  evening. 


I  heard  of  your  beggary,  I  had  resolved  to 
separate  from  you  fov  ever,  and  to  leave  you 
to  your  own  course  of  life,  and  your  own 
associates.  In  this  case" — she  pointed  to  one 
on  the  table — *•  you  will  find  all  the  jewels  I 
have  received  from  your  uncle  or  yourself; 
and  if  you  have  any  further  communications 
to  make  to  me  on  business,  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  do  so  through  my  father's  solici- 
tor. And  now,  I  presume,  I  can  leave  your 
house  at  once.  There  can  be  nothing  more 
for  you  to  say,  or  for  me  to  hear."  And  she 
moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Nothing !  "  echoed  Philip — "  nothing. 
Thank  God,  no  child  of  mine  can  call  you 
mother !  and  that,  in  this  moment,  I  have  no 
one  softer  feeling — no  duty  pleading  for  you 
in  my  heart.  Go,  madam  !  return  to  your 
parents'  house ;  you  are  far  fitter  to  be  their 
daughter  than  the  wife  of  an  honest  man  !  " 
And  he  turned  away,  and  buried  his  face  be- 
tween his  hands. 

In  another  moment  the  door  closed  after 
her.  The  carriage,  which  was  ordered  to 
convey  her  to  her  father's,  was  already  wait- 
ing, and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  had  left 
the  house,  and  Philip  and  his  wife  were 
parted  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

EARXSCLIFFE  little  knew,  at  first,  the  full 
extent  to  which  his  uncle's  losses  would  af- 
fect himself.  With  all  the  romance  of  his 
character,  he  had  pictured  his  new  life  as 
merely  freed  from  the  artificial  trammels  of 
society,  and  more  like  that  of  his  friend  Ne- 
ville's, and  had  felt  a  sort  of  pleasure  at  the 
thought.  The  reality  was  such  as  he  never 
Ireamed  of.  All  the  world  had  hitherto 
been  on  his  side  on  the  point  of  his  domestic 
grievances.  Lady  Clara,  in  her  gloomy  se- 
lusion,  had  had  few  supporters;  while  all — 
erer  her  own  relations — had  smiled  on  her 
young,  handsome,  and  rich  husband  ;  and  had 
their  separation  taken  place  a  month  earlier, 
it  is  probable  that  every  one  would  have  pro- 
nounced in  Philip's  favor.  Hut  the  news  of 
Miles  Karnsclille's  ruin,  and  of  Clara's  return 
to  her  father's  protection,  fell  on  the  greedy 
ear  of  the  world  at  the  same  time;  and  the 
feeling  awakened  by  the  lir.-t  intelligence 
greatly  influenced  the  verdict  upon  the  latter. 

1'hiiip  had  so  long  been  the  universal  fa- 
vorite— the  fashion  in  London — that  people 
looked  upon  hi;;  fall  from  wealth  as  a  sort  of 
insult  to  their  own  judgment.  The  failure 
»f  Miles  KarnseKtle  was  a  thing  the  proli.i- 
•  ility  of  which  had  never  l.cen  admitted  by 
•Ten  the  mi. -t  suspicious;  indited,  it  was 
generally  believed  that  the  old  merchant's 
oitune  had  been  long  withdrawn  from  tho 
uncertain  field  of  speculation,  and  vested  in 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


51 


English  securities.  When,  therefore,  the 
sudden  news  of  his  ruin  was  made  known, 
the  general  feeling  towards  him  was  one  of 
pity,  but  indignation.  From  unfounded  re- 
marks arose  reports  ;  these  quickly  strength- 
ened into  facts ;  and  in  a  few  days  Miles 
Earnscliffe  was  successively  pronounced  an 
unprincipled  speculator,  a  man  who*  original- 
ly amassed  his  fortune  by  fraud,  and  had  now 
lost  it  through  the  discovery  of  the  swindle. 
For  the  directors  of  the'  Bombay  Bank, 
whose  failure  had  ruined  him,  were  in  truth 
by  no  means  clear  from  the  imputation  of 
dishonor ;  and  the  world,  merely  confound- 
ing the  sufferer  with  the  delinquent,  decreed 
that  old  Miles  was  not  only  ruined,  but  infa- 
mous ! 

Philip,  it  was  admitted,  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this  ;  but  he  was  a  coxcomb,  a  parvenu, 
and  a  bad  husband  ;  while,  by  a  natural  con- 
clusion, Lady  Clara  was  soon  elevated  to  the 
position  of  an  injured  woman,  long  suffering 
angel,  and  a  martyr.  And  Lady  St.  Leger, 
who  had  so  strongly  opposed  her  daughter's 
separation  from  Philip,  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised at  suddenly  finding  herself  quite  the 
fashion  in  consequence  of  this  event. 

Clara,  however,  received  the  advances 
of  her  friends  with  even  more  than  her  ac- 
customed coldness.  She  would  go  into  no 
society,  and  kept  as  much  aloof  from  her 
own  mother  as  was  possible ;  above  all,  she 
hated  to  hear  her  husband's  name,  or  that  of 
his  uncle  mentioned  before  her.  In  her  own 
heart  she  had  felt,  after  the  first  burst  of 
passion  was  over,  the  falseness  of  the  accu- 
sation she  had  made  to  Philip.  Now  that 
they  were  actually  parted  for  ever,  she  be- 
gan tardily  to  acknowledge  to  herself  the 
real  nobleness  of  his  character ;  and — with 
strange,  yet  not  uncommon  inconsistency — 
half  believed  she  loved  her  husband,  now 
that  it  was  too  late.  She  remembered  his 
youth — his  generosity  in  marrying  her — how 
unsuited  her  character,  in  its  utter  vvorldliness, 
must  have  been  to  his  own — and  she  framed  a 
thousand  excuses  for  his  love  of  more  conge- 
nial society  ;  and  even  for  that  last  open  dere- 
liction which  had  been  the  immediate  cause 
of  their  sepai^ation. 

In  her  long  sleepless  nights  she  recalled 
their  parting  interview,  and  saw  herself 
harsh,  unwomanly,  unforgiving ;  taunting 
him  on  his  uncled  affliction,  and  imputing 
sordid  motives  to  himself,  while  he  had  for- 
borne so  long,  and  still  tried  to  reconcile  her. 
She  thought  of  him  now,  the  world  turning 
from  him  as  it  should  have  done  from  guilt, 
not  misfortune,  and  her  proud,  misguided 
heart — which  might  have  been  a  gentle  and 
loving  one,  had  she  been  differently  educa- 
ted— throbbed  for  Philip  in  his  loneliness,  as 
it  had  never  done  in  his  popularity  and  suc- 
cess ;  and  often  in  tears  and  self-reproach 
she  longed  to  be  at  his  side.  But  he  never 
knew  this.  Clara  would  have  died  sooner 
than  reveal  to  human  ear  that  she  repented 


her  own  act ;  and  through  all  her  after-life 
Philip  Earnscliffe  never  heard  again  from  his 
wife. 

The  house  in  Park  Lane  was,  of  course, 
given  up  at  once,  and  Philip  returned  to  his 
uncle's  for  the  present,  until  the  future  plans 
of  both  should  be  decided.  Miles,  though 
no  longer  a  millionaire,  was  after  all,  very  far 
from  being  a  ruined  man ;  and  on  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  sale  of  this  Yorkshire  estate,  he 
found  that  he  might  still  continue  to  live  in 
his  present  house — a  great  consolation  to  the 
old  man,  to  whom  his  home  was  endeared 
by  all  the  recollections  of  Philip's  childhood. 
His  tens  of  thousands  had  been  reduced  to 
hundreds ;  but  he  had  an  income  even  now, 
which,  although  poverty  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  would  to  his  brother  Herbert  have  ap- 
peared riches. 

"  I  shall  not  have  to  lessen  your  allowance 
more  than  half,  Phil,"  was  one  of  his  first 
remarks  after  the  winding-up  of  his  affairs. 
But  the  burning  flush  which  rose  in  Philip's 
cheek,  as  he  refused  to  receive  one  farthing 
more  in  the  way  of  assistance  from  his  un- 
cle, was  too  sincere  a  proof  of  his  sentiments 
for  Miles  to  press  the  subject. 
'  •«  I  am  fully  able  to  work  for  myself,"  he 
answered.  "  And  for  my  own  sake,  I  am 
thankful  that  it  is  my  lot  to  do  so.  I  abhor 
the  very  mention  of  riches,  as  I  do  the  peo- 
ple who  have  cringed  to  us  for  them  so  long." 
Philip  had  heard  more  of  the  evil  reports 
about  his  uncle  than  had  come  to  the  old 
man's  own  knowledge,  and  his  disgust  was 
consequently  bitterer  against  the  world  where 
they  were  circulated.  He  shrank  with  almost 
morbid  sensitiveness  from  any  mention  of 
money  ;  and  innocent  though  he  felt  himself, 
conscious  of  his  uncle's  entire  integrity- 
through  his  whole  lifetime,  he  yet  could  not 
bear  to  be  seen  by  his  old  associates,  while 
the  imputation  of  dishonor  was  upon  their 
name,  avoiding  even  the  society  of  the  few 
friends  he  possessed,  who  really  sympathised 
with  him  in  his  trial.  Poverty  would  have 
been  nothing  to  Philip,  but  the  falsehood 
which  was  now  current  in  the  world  was  so 
unexpected  a  blow,  that  he  staggered  and 
felt  powerless  under  the  shock.  It  was  his 
first  great  trial,  and  he  felt  it  with  all  the 
keen  and  passionate  grief  of  youth.  But 
there  was  still  more  awaiting  him. 

His  new  book  was  now  ready,  and  he  de- 
termined that  it  should  come  out  at  once, 
though  his  friendly  publishers,  with  a  truer 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  real  regard 
for  his  interest,  entreated  him  to  delay  its  ap- 
pearance until  another  season,  or,  at  least 
till  the  present  tide  of  public  opinion  had 
somewhat  turned.  Philip  firmly  refused  to 
do  so.  "  What  have  my  private  affairs  to 
do  with  my  writings?"  he  argued.  "Or 
how  can  it  affect  the  merit  of  a  book,  that 
the  author  has  suddenly  become  a  poor  man, 
and  that  his  wife  and  friends  have  chosen  to 
leave  him !  No,  it  shall  appear,  and  stand 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


or  fall  upon  its  own  worth.  I  am  sick  of 
success  that  I  have  not  really  won  for  my- 
-eelf."  And  the  publishers  were  forced  to 
comply. 

The  book  did  appear,  and  was  a  dead 
failure.  Only  the  few  grave  and  honest 
critics  who  had  warned  the  young  author  of 
the  faults  in  his  second  work,  acknowledged 
the  real  genius  and  increased  powers  of  his 
present  one,  and  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 
The  fashionable  papers,  by  one  accord,  and 
also  many  of  the  literary  journals,  abused 
the  book  without  measure.  It  was  stupid, 
frivolous,  impertinent ;  without  talent  and 
without  principles ;  and  one  evening  paper 
went  so  far  as  to  say,  "  The  work  was  only 
what  might  have  been  expected  from  such  a 
pen,  and  was  literally  unfit  for  a  drawing- 
room  table.1' 

Philip  read  all  these  criticisms,  of  course; 
it  was  his  principal  employment  to  do  so  in 
his  loneliness  and  dispppointment ;  but  when 
lie  glanced  over  the  one  last  alluded  to,  a 
bitterer  expression  than  usual  escaped  his 
lips.  He  remembered  the  two  columns  of 
fulsome  praise  upon  his  second  book,  which 
had  appeared  in  this  very  paper,  at  the  time 
that  he  was  in  the  zenith  of  his  popularity — 
praise  which  then  had  disgusted  him,  from 
its  excess,  and  total  want  of  discrimination — 
and  contrasted  them  in  his  mind  with  the 
few  lines  of  malevolent  abuse  bestowed  now 
upon  his  last  and  far  superior  work.  "  It 
is  well,"  thought  Earnsclilfe,  as  he  laid  down 
the  paper.  "These  gentlemen  are  doing 
me  a  far  greater  service  than  even  the  few 
kindly  critics,  who  have  tried  to  stem,  in  my 
favor,  the  tide  of  fashionable  opinion.  My 
next  book  will  be  one  that  shall  seek  its  suc- 
cess in  the  world.  It  shall  be  written,  not 
for  the  flimsy  praise  of  May  Fair,  or  the  ap- 
plause of  evening  papers,  but  for  the  people 
— the  working  and  honest  people — of  whose 
wrongs,  I  will  become  the  advocate,  while  I 
expose  that  society  whose  leaders  have  now 
cast  me  oil'."  And  Philip  fulfilled  his  words. 

lie  took  an  obscure  lodging  not  far  from 
Ms  friend  Neville  (for  he  had  a  longing  to 
IK-  perfectly  alone),  and  began  working  with 
a  fervor  and  perseverance  astonishing  to  tin- 
artist,  who  had  hitherto  only  seen  in  Philip  a 
gentle,  indok'iitboy,  with  genius,  but  scan-c- 
iv ambition  enough  to  become  really  great. 
Now,  in  a  lew  weeks,  he  seemed  transformed 
into  a  hard- working,  untiring,  practical  man. 
II  s  style  altered  with  his  character.  It  lost 
the  old  carele>s  diction,  thestmny  enthusiasm, 
the  !/oitt/if'ulnf>.w,  which  had  constituted  the 
peculiar  charm  of  his  earlier  writings,  and 
became  earnest,  manly,  more  forcible.  The 
M-iiis  o|  sarcasm,  that  merely  ran  lightly 
through  his  first  works,  and  scarcely  tinged 
them,  had  now  grown  can-tic  and  bitter,  col- 
oring IIM  whole  thoughts.  He. showed  up, 
vith  no  sparing  hand,  the  vices  and  foibles 
of  those  few  hundreds  of  persons  in  Ilelgra- 
via  why  call  themselves  the  world,  sketching 


many  a  well-known  character  with  a  few  terse 
words  of  ridicule  that  yet,  rendered  the  like- 
ness to  perfection,  and  were  more  biting 
from  their  brevity.  Above  all,  he  laid  bare 
that  hideous  Mammon-worship  which  lies  at 
the  very  heart  of  English  society,  making 
the  fairest  and  first-born  among  us  bow  down 
with  smiles  before  a  railway  schemer,  who 
has  succeeded  through  dishonesty,  or  a  pro- 
fligate Eastern  monster,  whose  atrocities  are 
as  well  known  as  the  number  of  his  lacs  of 
rupees.  It  was  a  subject  on  which  Philip  felt 
keenly,  and  about  which — although  with 
some  pardonable  excess  of  bitterness,  .and 
slight  exaggeration — he  wrote  well.  But  it 
was  not  one  to  win  back  his  lost  popularity 
among  his  former  friends.  In  his  second 
volume  he  turned  to  another  class  of  English 
people,  and  dwelt  eloquently  upon  the  long 
sufferings,  the  patient-abidings,  the  wrongs 
of  the  laboring  poor,  whose  masses  make  up 
the  real  bulk  of  society,  and  from  their  ranks 
the  main  characters  of  the  story  were  taken. 
It  was  emphatically  a  book  of,  and  for  the 
peoplo ;  and  not  all  the  critics  in  London 
could  have  prevented  its  becoming  popular. 
But,  if  it  had  appeared  with  anothar  name, 
few  could  have  suspected  that  its  author,  and 
the  author  of  the  graceful  tales  and  ballads 
which  had  adorned  so  many  a  silken  boudoir 
was  the  same. 

Neville  watched  his  friend's  progress  with 
undisguised  pleasure.  He  had  always  re- 
gretted the  kind  of  life  into  which  Philip 
had  been  so  long  drawn  by  his  position  ;  and 
he  would  now  frequently  say,  "  Ah  Phil !  the 
best  day  in  your  life  was  that  when  your  un- 
cle's smash  came,  your  great  friends  with- 
drew, and  your  wife  was  good  enough  to 
leave  you.  It  was  really  far  better  luck  than 
you  deserved."  Philip  always  tried  to  agree 
with  him  ;  but  every  week  he  looked  more 
worn  and  old.  Although  energetic  when 
under  tho  influence  of  some  strong  excite- 
ment— as  was  now  the  case — his  tempera- 
ment was  not  suited  for  battling  with  disap- 
pointment and  rebuffs,  like  the  artist's,  lie 
had  no  natural  "genius  for  plodding,"  as 
Neville  called  it;  and  while  his  book  pro- 
ceeded rapidly,  he  grew  paler  in  his  confined 
lodgings,  and  sometimes  wondered  within 
himself  if  he,  really  were  born  for  this  kind 
.•I'  life,  as  on  the  first  evening  of  his  changed 
fortune  he  had  decided. 

Meantime.  Neville's  pictures  were  finished 
and  sold  ;  and  as  lie  had  nothing  more  to 
detain  him  in  town,  his  small  arrangements* 
were  speedily  made  for  his  departure  to  the 
Continent.  Philip  went  to  his  lodgings  tin; 


evening  before  he  was  to  leave,  and  found 
him,  as  usual,  in  his  close  room,  his  one  port- 
mautcaii  and  his  painting-box  standing  park- 
ed miller  the  table,  and  the  artist  himx-lf 
sealed  at  the  solitary  window  which  over- 
looked a  sultry  back  street  and  a  greengro- 
cer's shop,  but  with  a  more  ladiant.  expres- 
sion than  Philip  luul  ver  remarked  upon  his 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


53 


face  among  all  the  glories  of  a  Highland  sun- 
set. 

"  Here  you  are,  Philip  !  "  he  cried,  gaily, 
as  his  friend  entered.  •*  I  thought  I  should 
see  you  this  last  evening ;  and,  by  Jove !  I 
only  wish  you  were  coming  away  with  rne  to- 
morrow— that  is,  of  course,  if  you  were  as 
free  as  I  am.  I  am  not  much  given  to  bursts 
of  enthusiasm,  as  you  know,  but  I  do  feel 
singularly  happy  to-day,  and  should  like  to 
think  we  were  to  spend  the  coming  summer 
together,  as  we  did  the  last." 

"You  look  happy,"  said  Philip,  as  he 
possessed  himself  of  the  artist's  other  chair, 
and  gazed  half  enviously  at  his  bright  coun- 
tenance. "  The  world  goes  well  with  you, 
Neville." 

"  Yes,  I  make  it  do  so  !  It  is  no  surprise 
at  unlooked-for  success  which  makes  me  in 
good  spirits  this  evening,  but  merely  a  feel- 
ing of  contentment  at  finding  how  things 
turn  out  precisely  as  I  intended  they  should  ; 
how  singularly  -we  can  rule  our  own  destiny  ! 
You  know  how  I  have  slaved  for  the  last  sev- 
en months  upon  those  pictures;  they  are 
now  completed  and  sold  exactly  at  the  time 
I  had  fixed  ;  and  to-day,  the  thirtieth  of  June, 
as  I  thought,  I  am  sitting  for  the  last  time  in 
this  room,  where  I  have  worked  for  four  up- 
hill years,  and  am  closing  the  first  period  in 
my  life.  My  old  easel  I  have  presented  to 
my  landlady  for  firewood ;  and  to-morrow  I 
start  (without  a  regret,  Phil,  except  that  I 
shall  not  see  you  again  for  two  years),  and 
shall  spend  the  summer  sketching  in  Switzer- 
land ;  next  winter  in  Rome." 

"  Yours  is  a  happier  organism  than  mine," 
replied  Philip.  *«  I  should  feel  a  regret  at 
sitting  at  my  window  for  the  last  time,  and 
giving  up  my  easel  for  firewood,  after  it  had 
been  my  friend  during  four  years." 

Neville  laughed  aloud.  "  It  is  not  in  my 
nature  to  create  sorrows,"  he  answered.  "  I 
am  not  a  poet,  and  have  no  poetic  tendencies 
whatever ;  and  I  am  happy  to  think  that  you 
are  fast  losing  yours.  Just  retain  as  much 
sentiment  as  is  wanted  for  the  tender  part  of 
your  books,  and  discard  all  the  rest  from 
your  own  life ;  you  will  find  quite  enough  to 
regret  in  the  world,  without  wasting  your 
sympathies  on  old  easels.  By-the-bye,  what 
are  Fridoline,  and  Rose,  and  all  those  peo- 
ple about?  Have  you  given  them  up,  as 
well  as  the  grand  world  ?  " 

"They  at  least  have  not  given  me  up,"  re- 
turned Philip.  "  I  have  seen  little  of  Frid- 
oline lately ;  indeed,  I  have  had  time  for 
nothing  but  writing,  but  I  hear  she  is  pro- 
gressing wonderfully  in  her  profession,  and 
receives  an  enormous  salary  at  St.  James's. 
You  would  scarcely  believe,  Neville,  how 
much  feeling  some  of  '  those  people  '  as  you 
call  them,  showed  when  I  lost  my  expecta- 
tions of  wealth  and  my  literary  reputation  at 
one  blow.  Celeste,  poor  thing,  shed  tears — 
over  the  criticisms  in  some  of  the  papers, 


which  she  managed  to  understand,  and  Frid- 
oline— " 

"And  Rose?"  interrupted  Neville,  in  his 
old  tone. 

"  No,  Neville,  thank  you,"  said  Philip, 
reddening;  "we  will  not  broach  that  sub- 
ject if  you  please.  You  know  that  I  am  not 
a  fit  person  to  listen  to  Rose  Elmslie's  de- 
tractors ;  and  also  that  I  have  too  few  illusions 
left  to  be  desirous  of  sacrificing  any  more. 
Against  my  own  senses,  I  shall  retain  my  for- 
mer opinion  of  Rose,  and  therefore  would 
rather  not  speak  to  her  of  you." 

"  Well,  taking  that  view  of  it,  you  are 
acting  rightly,"  returned  Neville.  "  Like 
the  nobleman  who  paid  his  valet  three  hun- 
dred a  year  to  cheat  him  openly,  you  say  to 
yourself  that  you  are  a  happy  man,  and  shut 
your  eyes  when  you  see  Rose  driving  in 

Count  B 's  pony  carriage.  How  far  have 

you  advanced  in  your  book  ?  " 

"Oh!  it  is  half  finished.  In  a  month  I 
shall  go  off  to  the  seaside,  and  complete  it 
there,  for  I  am  actually  ill  in  this  hot,  close 
air  of  London.  It  will  be  published  by  next 
winter,  and  I  will  write  and  tell  you  of  its 
success — 511  or  good." 

"  Do  so.  No  one  will  be  more  interest- 
ed in  it  than  myself,  and  I  shall  be  delighted 
if  you  would  join  me  in  Italy  afterwards." 

"  I  shall  like  it  extremely  if  I  were  able, 
but — " 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  keep 
you  in  England.  You  say  you  hate  parties 
and  theatres  now.  Your  wife  is  certainly  no 
longer  the  attraction  :  surely  you  will  not 
begin  writing  another  book  directly.  It 
would  be  much  better  for  you  to  give  your 
brain  a  rest,  and  come  to  Italy  for  a  stock  of 
new  ideas.  I  am  positive  the  artist-life  in 
Rome  would  suit  us  both." 

"Yes — "  said  Philip,  hesitating.  "It 
would  be  very  pleasant;  but  you  see  I  have 
ties  to  England.  My  uncle  is  an  old  man, 
and  has  none  belonging  to  him  but  me ;  for 
his  sake  I  feel  myself  in  some  measure 
bound — " 

"  A  convenient  excuse  !  "  exclaimed  Ne- 
ville. "  I  wish  it  were  the  real  reason. 
However,  the  longest  road  has  some  turning, 
and  I  am  sure  your  present  weakness  can- 
not be  eternal.  When  that  is  over,  you  will 
find  that  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  leave 
your  excellent  uncle  for  a  year,  or  even  two, 
without  the  separation  breaking  anybody's 
heart !  " 

"  But  you  forget  that  I  am  a  poor  man 
now.  It  is  an  expensive  thing  travelling  in 
Italy." 

"Oh  you  always  talk  as  though  you  were 
actual  beggars,  when  at  this  moment  Mr. 
Miles  continues  to  live  in  a  house  I  consider 
a  palace,  and  you  have  nearly  finished  a  new- 
novel,  for  which  you  will  have  six  or  seven 
hundred  pounds,  at  least." 

"  Or  half,  or  a  quarter  the  sum,"   inter- 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


rupted  Philip.  *'  After  my  last  dead  failure 
publishers  will  be  rather  shy  of  offering  to 
purchase  my  works." 

"  Then  publish  on  your  own  account ;  your 
new  book  must  succeed." 

Thev  talked  together  until  past  midnight. 
Then  Philip,  after  a  hearty  farewell,  took 
his  leave  5  and  by  five  o'clock  next  morning 
Neville  was  driving  along  through  the  inter- 
minable, streets  leading  to  St.  Katherine's 
Wharf,  where  he  embarked  for  Rotterdam. 

Philip  felt  a  heavy  sense  of  loneliness 
when  he  was  gone.  He  missed  Neville's 
cheerful  face  more  than  he  had  expected — 
his  friendlessness  oppressed  him.  There 
were  long  weary  hours  when  his  brain  refus- 
ed to  work,  and  his  eyes  were  hot  and  hea- 
vy ;  and  then  he  longed  most  for  youthful 
companionship,  and  so  gradually  took  refuge 
more  and  more  in  the  society  of  poor  Rose. 
She  was  always  ready  to  smile  upon  him. 
Without  much  real  depth  of  feeling,  the  in- 
nocence of  her  country  life  gave  her  a  tone 
unlike  other  women  of  her  class — she  was 
gentle,  often  sad :  for  the  sentiment  she 
really  bore  to  Philip  (the  only  approach  to  a 
true  one  in  her  whole  existence)  made  her  at 
times  hate  herself  and  her  life,  and  when  she 
was  with  him  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears, 
and  her  voice  tremble.  In  an  hour  after  he 
had  left,  the  momentary  impulse  was  gone ; 

and  in  the  society  of  Count  B ,  or  at  the 

gay  suppers  after  the  ballet,  Rose  was  again 
the  light,  reckless,  high-spirited  actress. 
IJnt  while  her  softer  mood  was  upon  her  (and 
that  was  as  he  always  saw  her)  it  gave  her  a 
charm  in  Philip's  eyes  greater  even  than  her 
beauty,  and  every  day  this  fascination  in- 
creased. / 

Still,  Earnscliffe  did  not  love  her.  There 
was  something  within  him  which  instinctive!) 
made  him  shrink  from  loving  any  woman  in 
her  position.  His  natually  refined  taste,  anc 
poetic  notions  about  what  woman  should  be, 
had  made  him  from  his  boyhood  feel  differ 
cully  to  other  young  men  on  such  subjects 
and  he  knew  that  the  moment  in  which  h( 
was  forced  to  see  Rose  as  she  really  was,  lu 
would  leave  her  for  ever.  But,  in  the  mean 
time,  her  beauty  attracted  him  irresistibly 
Amid  his  desolation  and  disappointment,  IK 
would  gaze  on  her  sweet  young  face,  am 
listen  to  her  low  voice,  and  try  to  persuailt 
himself  that  his  Egeria  was  really  found 
While  still,  in  his  own  heart,  he  knew  that  i 
was  a  false  one. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Towu:i>-  the  middle  of  October  Philip' 

book  was  finished.  lie  had  spent  the  MUM 
IIKT  at  a  quirt  waterin^-phl'-. •  on  the  soiitl 
(oast,  accompanied  by  his  uncle,  who  suumui 


mvilling  to  part  with  him  for  a  single  week. 
Che  loss  of  his  property  had  strangely  solt- 
jned  the  hard  character  of  Miles.  Nothing 
now  gave  him  such  pleasure  as  to  walk  up 
and  down  on  the  beach,  listening  to  the 
waves,  and  watching  the  children  who  played 
vith  them,  and  gathered  treasures  by  their 
ide ;  or  in  stormy  weather  to  sit  at  the  win- 
low,  which  overlooked  the  sea,  and  gaze 
)ut  at  the  scene  bofore  him.  He  would  re- 
uain  thus  for  hours  patiently,  while  Philip 
,vas  writing  in  another  part  of  the  room,  nti 
speaking  for  fear  of  interrupting  him,  and 
seeking  no  employment  for  himself;  but 
when  Philip  at  length,  would  say — "Now, 
sir,  T  have  done  work  for  to-day,"  the  old 
man's  face  grew  bright  in  a  second  ;  and 
kvhen  his  nephew  came  and  sat  by  him  to 
'ead  aloud  something  he  had  written,  or  talk 
over  old  times,  he  was  happy  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  evening. 

Philip  was  glad  to  see  his  uncle  in  this  al- 
tered state  of  mind,  but  to  himself  the  quiet 
monotony  of  their  days  was  often  galling. 
In  the  prime  of  youth  and  energy,  he  longed 
to  cast  himself  again  into  the  throng  of  life, 
and,  by  some  new  and  brilliant  success,  wipe 
out  the  remembrance  of  his  failure,  and  the 
stigma  upon  his  uncle's  name.  It  is  only 
after  a  certain  age,  that  solitude  can  be  wel- 
come in  grief  and  disappointment ;  it  is 
never  so  in  youth.  After  the  first  blow,  the 
first  shrinking  from  the  world  is  over,  the 
natural  reaction  must  always  be  to  face  the 
struggle  again,  and  win  back  the  lost  object, 
or  forget  it  in  the  pursuit  of  a  fresh  desire. 

They  returned  to  Miles's  house  in  Novem- 
ber, and  in  due  time  the  book  appeared; 
but  neither  of  his  earlier  productions  had 
met  with  success  such  as  awaited  this  one. 
Philip  was  himself  astonished  at  it.  Edition 
after  edition  was  called  for,  and  in  a  few 
months  Philip  found  his  popularity  establish- 
ed upon  a  far  surer  base  than  it  had  ever 
been  before — the  general  good  opinion  of 
the  middle  classes.  He,  had  become  one  of 
the  favorite  writers  of  the  day.  Still,  he 
felt  in  his  own  heart  that  the  first  pleasure  in 
success  was  gone,  lie  had  fulfilled  his  de- 
sire of  brilliantly  effacing  his  literary  failure  ; 
and  the  fickle  voice  oi  the  public  had  al- 
readv  recanted,  imdrr  the  inlluence  of  his 
DOW  triumph,  the  former  base  reports  about 
old  .Miles;  but  the  zrst — the  freshness  of 
life  was  over.  lie  did  not  doubt  the  sinceri- 
ty of  his  friends,  but  he  wished  to  be  tree 
from  them  and  tin-  whole,  world.  Having 
achieved  the  victory,  he  eared  not  to  wear 
the  laurels;  and  he  began  seriously  to  think 
of  joining  N'eville,  or,  at  least,  of  going 
abroad  for  a  time.  He  had  often  wished  to 
visit  the  wild  pails  of  western  France  — where 
the  artist  had  once  spent,  some  months,  and 
which  he  had  described,  in  all  ii^  s.ivagu 
loneliness,  to  Philip —and  he  now  thought 
he  would  like  tosprnd  the  summer  in  accom- 
plishing this,  and  afterward  -o  to  Uo.n  I  lor 


PHILIP  EARSTSCLIFFE. 


55 


the  winter.  The  extraordinary  success  of 
his  last  work  had  supplied  him  amply  with 
means  for  travelling,  and  he  felt  that  a  long 
rest  and  perfect  change  would  be  necessary 
for  his  over-worked  brain,  before  writing 
again. 

Only  two  objections  weighed  against  this 
project:  the  first  was  leaving  his  uncle. 
The  delight  of  Miles  at  his  newly-arisen  fame, 
was  far  greater  than  his  own.  It  had  cheered 
the  old  man  more  than  anything  that  had  oc- 
curred since  his  own  losses ;  and  the  first 
tears  Philip  had  ever  seen  him  shed,  glisten- 
ed in  his  eyes  as  he  read  over  the  different 
criticisms  upon  his  boy's  book.  He  thought 
Philip  would  now  be  contented  and  happy, 
and  willing  to  live  quietly  with  him,  as  in 
his  young  days ;  and  when  one  day  he  dis- 
tantly hinted  at  his  idea  of'going  abroad  for 
a  year  or  two,  the  look  of  bitter  disappoint- 
ment which  crossed  his  uncle's  face,  touched 
Philip  deeply,  and  he  resolved  to  say  no 
more  on  the  subject.  But  when,  day  by  day, 
he  still  looked  paler,  while  his  spirits  did  not 
improve,  Miles  himself  began  to  think  it 
might  be  really  well  for  him  to  have  a  change 
of  scene  for  awhile ;  and  striving  to  forget 
what  his  own  loneliness  would  be  without 
him,  he  at  length  told  Philip  he  thought  it 
would  be  better  that  he  should  go  abroad — 
for  the  summer,  at  least.-  And  Philip,  not 
realising  to  the  full  the  sacrifice  these  words 
cost  Miles,  felt  glad  that  the  old  man  was 
reconciled  to  parting  with  him,  and  that  only 
one  more  inducement  to  remain  in  England 
still  existed.  This  inducement,  however, 
was  a  strong  one ;  and  Philip  had  wavered 
again  and  again  before  he  could  resolve 
upon  going  abroad,  when  a  circumstance 
occurred,  which,  although  trivial  in  itself, 
had  the  effect  of  disenchanting  him  for  ever 
with  his  last  illusion  (as  he  termed  his  feel- 
ing towards  Rose  when  speaking  of  it  to  the 
artist),  and  indirectly  influenced  much  of 
Philip's  after-life. 

One  bright  spring  morning  he  went,  at 
his  usual  hour,  to  call  on  Miss  Elmslie.  She 
was  always  glad  to  see  him  ;  but  he  thought 
he  detected  on  this  occasion  a  slight  embar- 
rassment in  her  manner  when  he  entered, 
although  she  strove  hard  to  conceal  it.  She 
was  seated  at  an  embossed  and  gaily-colored 
writing-table,  near  one  of  the  windows,  and, 
immediately  closing  the  portfolio  before  her, 
she  rose  to  meet  Philip — not  however,  be- 
fore a  glance  had  shown  him  that  she  was 
writing  one  of  her  familiar  little  pink-colored 
notes,  which,  from  another  opened  envelope 
and  note  by  its  side,  appeared  to  be  in  an- 
swer to  one  just  received. 

"  I  am  interrupting  you,  Rose,"  he  re- 
marked;  "were  you  writing  to  me — par 
hazard  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  !  how  could  I  possibly  have  any- 
thing worth  saying  to  you?  I  was  merely 
writing  to  my  milliner.  *  Tiresome  creature  ! 
my  new  dress  for  to-morrow  is  hideous,  and 


there  is  scarcely  time  to  make  me  a  new  on«. 
Where  will  you  sit?  this  horrid  sun  has 
nearly  blinded  me  !  "  and  closing  the  cur- 
tains, she  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  with  her 
back  to  the  light.  "  Tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing  this  last  age." 

Philip  thought  her  manner  somewhat 
forced,  but  replied  quickly — "  I  arn  glad  you 
consider  three  days  an  age,  Rose  !  however, 
it  is  not  jny  fault  that  I  did  not  see  you  yes- 
terday. I  called,  and  you  were  engaged. 
Are  you  really  growing  so  artificial" — he 
went  on — *'  as  to  call  this  bright  sun  horrid? 
After  all  the  winter  fog,  and  the  yellow  glare 
of  gaslight,  I  should  have  thought  you  would 
like  the  return  of  spring." 

"  Ah,  that  is  where  it  is !  "  she  replied, 
with  a  pretty  sigh.  "  I  am  so  accustomed 
to  the  false  glare,  as  you  call  it,  of  my  gas- 
lit  life,  that  I  am  losing  my  pleasure  in  all 
old  things.  The  sunshine  makes  me  miser- 
able, and  I  hate  the  smell  of  violets,  which 
they  are  selling  in  the  streets ;  you  know, 
until  I  was  fourteen  I  lived  in  a  country  vil- 
lage, and  I  think  I  would  rather  never  be 
reminded  of  my  early  life.  But  you  have 
not  seen  me  in  the  new  ballet ;  and  I  am  per- 
fect in  it.  Do  you  know  the  whole  thing 
was  composed  expressly  for  me,  and  they 
say  the  last  flying  scene  is  my  chefd"1  ceuvre, 

and  little  C i  is  mad  with  jealousy  at  my 

success !" 

**  I  do  not  go  much  to  the  opera  now," 
replied  Philip.  "  And,  besides  that,  you 
know  that  I  do  not  care  to  see  you  dance. 
1  like  to  think  of  you  as  you  are  now,  Rose 
— quiet  and  lovely,  and  with  me — not  gazed 
at,  and  commented  on  by  half  the  men  in 
London  in  your  stage  dress.  In  fact,"  he 
continued  warmly,  "I  hate  ballets  5  I  have 
hated  them  ever  since  I  knew  you.  I  can- 
not bear  to  think  of  you  continuing  this  pub- 
lic kind  of  life  for  years.  Do  you  think  you 
could  be  happy  if  you  gave  up  the  stage. 
Rose — could  content  yourself  with  the  quiet, 
every-day  happiness  of  an  ordinary  woman  ?" 
He  seated  himself  by  her  side,  looking  very 
earnestly  in  her  face,  as  though  reading  her 
reply  more  on  her  features  than  in  her 
words. 

Miss  Elmslie's  color  came  and  went. 
There  was  something  in  Philip's  manner 
which  actually  made  her  own  heart  beat  a  lit- 
tle, and,  under  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
she  would  have  gladly  given  up  her  beauty, 
success,  admiration — all  that  constituted  the. 
sum  of  her  existence — to  be  once  more  in- 
nocent, and  able  really  to  love,  and  be  loved 
by,  a  man  like  Philip  Earnscliffe.  At  least, 
she  thought  so. 

"  Give  up  my  profession  !  "  she  replied, 
averting  her  face.  "Oh,  it  is  too  late!  I 
have  nothing  to  return  to  now — I  have  no 
friends,  no  relations — and  without  something 
to  fill  my  heart  and  time,  I  should  soon  wear/ 
of  quiet,  and  only  long  the  more  to  return 
to  the  excitement  and  forgetfulness  of  my 


56 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


present  life — and  it  is  delightful  to  be  so 
much  admired  !  But,"  she  continued,  softly, 
and  this  time  she  was  really  not  acting  when 
large  tears  filled  her  eyes,  "  if  I  had  earlier 
met  some  one  to  care  for  me,  to  warn  me  of 
the  dangers  of  my  position,  and  save  me,  I 
should  have  hated  to  be  a  dancer — now  it  is 
too  late  !  " 

"  Rose,"  began  Philip,  in  a  low,  grave 
voice,  "  it  can  never  be  too  late." 

She  shook  her  head;  but  he  persisted. 
He,  too,  was  carried  away  by  impulse — the 
girl's  beautiful  face,  and  touching  contrite 
manner  had  never  so  affected  him  before ; 
he  began  talking  about  a  quiet  cottage  in  the 
country,  and  a  life  apart  from  the  whole 
world  ;  and,  Heaven  knows  to  what  further 
extent  Philip  was  about  to  commit  himself, 
when,  at  that  moment,  a  discreet  knock  came 
at  the  door  of  the  room,  and  immediately  af- 
terwards, his  guardian  angel — in  the  shape 
of  Miss  Elmslie's  very  diminutive  page — en- 
tered. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  is  the  note  ready  ?  "  said 
the  child — he  ought  to  have  been  better  train- 
ed, but  Rose  had  only  had  him  a  few  days  in 
her  service,  the  former  boy  having  outgrown 
the  fairy-like  dimensions  of  her  carriage. 
"  The  Count's  groom  says  he  has  got  so 
many  ladies  to  call  on  this  morning,  he  thinks 
he  can't  wait  any  longer." 

Her  face  turned  crimson  with  mingled 
shame  and  anger  at  the  boy's  stupidity,  and 
Philip,  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  has  been 
rudely  awakened  out  of  a  pleasant  slumber 
over  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  rose  to  his  feet. 
"  Tell  him,"  stammered  Rose,  "  to  wait 
— I  mean  there  is  no  answer — no — I  will 
send  one — in  the  course  of  the  day." 

The  page  withdrew,  to  comment  on  his 
mistress's  odd  manner  and  the  young  gentle- 
man's face  to  the  Count's  groom,  and  left 
Rose  and  Philip  once  more  alone.  But  in 
those  few  moments  an  immense  space  of  time 
seemed  to  have  elapsed.  She  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  hesitated,    "  only  an 

answer  to  an  invitation — Count  B ,  you 

know — "  Philip  said  nothing — "  has  a  party 
to-night — only  a  musical  party,  I  believe — 
and — and — he  wished  me  to  join — Celeste 
will  be  there — and — but  I  shall  not  go,"  she 
added,  glancing  at  his  face. 

"  And  you  were  doubtless  writing  a  refu- 
sal when  I  came  in,"  answered  Philip.     "  Or 
did  you  say  /hat  was  to  your  milliner?  " 
""it  really  was,  I  assure  you." 
44  Let  me  see  it." 
/      "Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 
"  Let  me  see  it." 
*'  Oh,  you  are  too  hard  upon  mo,"  six-  an- 
swered, and  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  her  best  move;!,  Philip  never  rmil« 
utarid  the  sight  of  tears,  and  bis  tone  soften 
ed. 

14  Let  me  see  your  reply,"  he  said,  again 
"  1  have  surely  a  right  to  require  that." 


She  rose  very  slowly,  and  after  visible  hes- 
tation,  drew  a  little  key  from  her  watch- 
hain,  and  prepared  to  unlock  the  case. 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  she  said,  once  more, 
is  she  paused  irresolutely,  her  head  bent 
down,  and  her  slight  figure  leaning  in  an  at- 
itude  of  excessive  grace  against  the  writing 
able. 

Philip's  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  her, 
and  she  was  so  lovely  at  that  moment,  that 
le  could  scarcely  feel  angry  with  her  for  any- 
thing ;  but  he  answered 

"  You  have  deceived  me,  Rose  ;  however, 
as  you  object  to  it,  I  do  not  ask  to  see  the 
lote.  You  have  a  right  to  keep  your  own 
counsel.  For  the  future,  I  will  not  attempt 
to  interfere " 

She  flew  to  his  side.  "  I  have  deceived 
you  !  "  she  cried,  her  cheeks  burning  bright- 
y,  and  her  eyes  swimming.  "  I  have  de- 
ceived you — and  I  confess  it !  I  told  you  I 
was  writing  to  the  milliner  when  you  came 
n  because,  I  knew  you  would  think  me 

wrong  to  go  to  a  party  at  Count  B 's ; 

jut  I  really  was  to  go  with  Celeste,  and  we 
30th  meant  to  come  away  early — I  am  so 
sorry  now— so  truly  sorry — only  let  me  write 
a  refusal  to  that  horrid  man,  and — forgive 
me  !  " 


iph 

llusi 


youthful  illusions  left  for  him  to  be  willing  to 
part  with  any  of  those  which  still  lingered  ; 
and  with  Rose's  imploring  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks  before  him,  it  must  not  be  greatly 
wondered  at  that  he  did  forgive  her.  He 
saw  the  note  written  and  sent,  and  tried  to 
believe  that  she  had  accepted  the  invitation 
at  first  merely  through  her  childish  love  of 
gaiety.  They  were  reconciled  at  once  :  and 
Rose  made  faint  attempts  to  renew  their  form- 
er conversation  ;  but  Earnscliffe  could  not  at 
once  get  over  the  shock  of  this  little  incident. 

Count  B 's    shadow    had    darkened    the 

prospect  of  a  country  cottage,  and  he  left 
Miss  Elmslie's  house  in  an  hour's  time  with- 
out having  returned  to  the  subject  which  had, 
so  happily  for  himself,  been  interrupted. 

"Come  to-morrow,  and  von  will  sec  how 
fresh  I  look  after  my  early  hours  to-night  ! ' 
were  her  last,  words  as  her  hand  trembled  in 
his  at  parting. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

fc!l  in  an  unsettled  mood  after  he 
left  iJii.se.  1  le  hail  in>  particiil  ir  en^a^ement 
for  the  day;  and  when  he  had  looked  in  at 
his  clnl>,  and  wandered  about  the  streets  Ibr 
a  time,  he  grew  wear\  .  and  directed  his  steps 
homeward.  The  whole  nf  thi>  time  hi>  mind 
was  dwelling  on  the  occurrence  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

"  Is  it  possible,  after  all,  that  Mv \illu  was 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


57 


indeed  right?  '"  he  thought.  "  And  is  she — 
not  merely  light  and  childish — but  false  ? 
She  deceived  me  so  coolly  about  the  invita- 
tion, when  she  first  saw  me.  and  then  after- 
wards— still,  I  suppose  if  Celeste  is  to  be  at 
this  party  Rose  might  think  it  a  fit  one  for 
her  too — poor  child  !  He  must  invite  a  dif- 
ferent class  of  guests  now,  by  the  way,  for 
Celeste  never  used  to  go  to  such  houses  as 

Count  B 's !  "  He  paused.     "I  wonder 

if  Celeste  {.•?  going  to-night,  after  all  ?  " 

This  doubt  once  awakened,  Philip  could 
not  rest  till  it  was  satisfied.  He  turned  his 
steps  at  once  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
an  hour  afterwards  was  seated  in  Celeste's 
drawin<r-room — all  perfume,  and  ormolo,  and 
rose-colored  li<;ht  — and  listening  to  the  live- 
ly little  Frenchwoman's  affectionate  greeting, 
until  he  almost  forgot  the  object  of  his  visit. 
She  had  not  seen  much  of  "  cech.er  Philippe'1'1 
lately,  and  was  enchanted  to  be  able  to  talk 
over  his  recent  success. 

"  At  length  they  begin  to  appreciate  you," 
she  exclaimed  in  French,  as  she  made  him  take 
a  seat  beside  her,  on  her  dainty  satin  sofa. 
"  These  monsters  !  You  will  be  one  of  the 
first  writers  of  the  day — indeed  you  are  so 
already — you  are  immortal,  and  I — in  my 
humble  insignificance — I  shall  always  retain 
the  happiness  of  feeling  that  I  was  one  of 
the  very  first  to  recognise  your  young  genius, 
and  to  give  you  my  small  encouragement." 
Poor  Celeste  !  she  quite  thought  that  her  little 
supper-parties  had  some  way  or  another  as- 
sisted Philip  in  the  literary  world. 

"  And  I,"  returned  Earnscliffe,  kindly, 
*'  shall  always  gratefully  remember  your  zeal 
and  warm  sympathy  with  me  in  my  failure.  I 
have  many  to  congratulate  me  now  ;  but  you 
were  one  of  the  few  who  stood  by  me  through 
everything." 

Her  eyes  softened.  "Ah,  Philip !  you 
have  a  long  and  brilliant  career  in  store  for 
you,'"  she  cried;  "and  in  your  celebrity 
and  your  active  life,  you  will  have  no  time 
to  think  of  old  days.  *  But  I  shall  not  forget 
you.  As  Fridoline  says,  you  are  the  only 
man  in  the  world  with  whom  one  can  forget 
that  one  is  an  actress ;  and,  you  know,  it  is 
pleasant  sometimes  to  think  that  we  belong  to 
the  same  humanity  as  your  own  sisters  and 
wives.  Poor  little  Fndoline  !  "  she  continu- 
ed ;  "  do  you  not  think  she  has  been  looking 
pale  of  late  ?  " 

Philip,  with  some  feeling  of  compunction, 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  he  had  not  seen 
her  for  a  long  time ;  he  had  been  so  fully  oc- 
cupied. 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Celeste,  "I  know 
all  about  that.  But  your  book  has  long  been 
published,  and  your  present  occupation  is  not 
of  a  nature  worthy  enough  to  make  you  for- 
get your  old  friends  ;  and  Fridoline  and  I  both 
used  to  consider  ourselves  among  the  number." 

Philip  wa-  silent.  Something  in  Celeste's 
tone  struck  him  as  more  than  mere  wounded 
vanity,  or  feminine  jealousy,  and  it  reminded 


him  of  the  object  of  his  visit.  He  shrank, 
however,  from  approaching  the  subject ;  and, 
after  a  short  kind  of  laugh,  went  on  inquir- 
ing for  Fridoline. 

"  I  shall  never  understand  that  girl,"  re- 
plied Celeste.  "  Her  whole  life  is  a  perfect 
mystery.  She  works  on,  as  I  never  could, 
at  her  profession  ;  she  improves  wonderfully, 
and  receives — mon  Dieu,  quel  salaire  !  yet  I 
believe  every  day  she  hates  the  stage  more 
and  more.  Her  greatest  triumphs  only  give 
her  a  gloomy,  unnatural  pleasure,  which 
arises  neither  from  gratified  vanity,  nor  any 
other  feeling  that  I  can  understand  ;  and, 
with  all  her  money,  would  you  believe  that, 
instead  of  buying  toilettes,  or  ornaments,  or 
a  carriage,  or  giving  parties,  she  still  lives 
in  that  dull  old  cottage,  with  her  one  servant 
and  her  beasts,  and  will  not  spend  a  shilling 
on  a  cab  in  rainy  weather  ?  And  yet  she  is 
no  miser ;  for  she*  will  give  freely  to  any  un- 
fortunate being  she  meets  in  the  streets. 
She  goes  nowhere  but  to  the  theatre,  and  to 
see  me ;  in  short,  as  I  said,  her  life  and 
herself  are  mysteries  !  " 

"  You  know  more  about  her  than  any  one, 
Celeste.  What  do  you  really  think  is  her 
early  history  ?  for,  of  course,  little  Fridoline 
did  not  actually  drop  from  the  clouds,  when 
she  first  appeared  in  London." 

Celeste  shook  her  head.  "  I  know  noth- 
ing— or  next  to  nothing,"  she  replied.  "  Frid- 
oline is  like  a  child  in  telling  me  all  the  inci- 
dents of  her  present  life ;  but,  if  anything 
happens  to  lead  her  towards  the  past,  she  be- 
comes suddenly  silent  and  confused,  and  ev- 
idently shuns  the  subject.  Two  things  I  do 
know,"  she  added,  hesitatingly,  "  and  cer- 
tainly I  would  confide  them  to  no  one  but 
yourself;  however,  I  know  you  are  so  unlike 
most  of  the  world,  that,  if  I  told  you,  her  se- 
cret as  far  as  it  goes  would  be  safe,  and  also 
that  you  would  not  judge  Fridoline  by  mere 
appearance." 

"  And  these  circumstances?  " 

"  Well,  they  are  these."  Celeste  drew  a 
little  closer,  and  lowered  her  voice.  "  The 
first,  perhaps,  you  may  think  unimportant ; 
Fndoline,  though  she  always  speaks  of  her- 
self as  an  orphan,  has  a  mother  living,  and 
not  very  far  distant.  This  I  know  for  cer- 
tain ;  for  when  she  was  ill  and  delirious " 

"  And  you  nursed  her,  Celeste." 

"  She  more  than  once  spoke  of  her  moth- 
er, wildly  and  mournfully,  but  in  terras 
which  showed  that  she  had  only  lately  parted 
from  her.  The  second  clue  is  dark,  and  to 
me  incomprehensible ;  and  often  and  often  I 
have  thought  over  it,  and  vainly  tried  to 
connect  the  circumstance,  I  am  about  to  tell 
you,  with  Fridoline  as  she  now  is.  You 
shall,  however,  judge  for  yourself.  When 
Fridoline  had  been  in  London  some  months, 
she  chanced  one  day  to  be  sitting  with  me 
when  an  old  friend  of  mine  from  Paris — a 
relation  of  my  own,  in  fact,  who  had  just  ar- 
rived in  England— came  in  unexpectedly. 


58 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


The  moment  he  saw  Fridoline  I  was  sure  he 
recognised    her,   and    his   surprise    was   un- 
equivocal; while    she,  on    the   other   hand, 
bowed   when  1  introduced   them,  with   the 
perfect  sang  fro  Id  and  unconcern  of  a  strang- 
.  er,  and  soon  afterwards  rose  and  took  leave. 
:  The  door  had  scarcely  closed  when  my  re- 
lation exclaimed,  '  Where,  in  Heaven's  name, 
did  you  pick  up  that  girl  ?  ' 

"  '  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  pick- 
ing up,'  I  replied.  '  She  is  Mademoiselle 
Fridoline,  the  most  rising  actress  in  London, 
and  a  particular  friend  of  my  own.' 

"  '  Oh  ! '  returned  my  cousin  ;  '  so  that  is 
little  Fridoline.  Well,  I  am  glad  you  like 
her,  and  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  something 
about  her  past  history.' 

*'  I  was  obliged  to  confess  that!  could  not, 
as  there  was  considerable  mystery  attached 
to  Fridoline,  and  it  was  not  even  known  to 
what  country  she  belonged* 

"  •  Then,'  he  answered,  '  I  can  give  you 
some  slight  information  on  the  subject, — at 
all  events,  of  her  life  in  Paris.' 

"  '  I  never  knew  she  had  been  there,' 
said  1.' 

"  My  cousin  smiled.  'My  apartment  at 
home,"  continued  he,  '  happens  to  face  the 
house  of  a  certain  Russian  prince' — he  told 
me  his  name,  but  it  was  so  hard  and  hideous 
that  I  have  forgotten  it — '  and  sometimes, 
when  I  am  tired  after  my  day's  work,  I 
amuse  myself  a  little  by  watching  the  visitors 
of  my  princely  vis-h-vis.  As  to  the  men,  I 
have  seen,  of  course,  English  lords,  French 
peers,  German  princes,  by  dozens,  enter  the 
hotel ;  but  the  women,  bah  !  all  of  one  class, 
and  the  worst.' 

"'Go  on,'  I  said,  impatiently.  'What 
has  all  this  to  do  with  Fridoline  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,  only  this.  That  on  three  differ 
ent  occasions  last  winter  (and  she  may  have 
been  there  scores  of  times  before)  I  saw  thai 
girl  descend  from  a  fiacre,  towards  dusk,  and 
enter  the  Hotel  Danon.' 

** '  Impossible  ! '  I  cried. 
.  "  '  But  I  would  swear  to  it,'  he  answered 
'  Iler's  is  not  a  face  to  forget.  Twice,  cer- 
tainly, I  only  saw  her  from  my  window,  am" 
I  grant  that  I  might  have  been  mistaken  ;  or 
the  third  occasion,  however,  I  happened  t< 
be  passing  the  porte-cochere  of  the  hote" 
exactly  as  she  was  entering,  and  the  ligli 
falling  full  upon  her  fiiee,  I  saw  her  us  plain 
ly  as  I  do  yon  now,  and  she  and  your  friem 
are  the,  same.' 

"  His  manner  was  so  odiously  positive 
that  I  was  convinced  of  his  truth  in  spite  of 
my-elf:  luit  I  tried  to  account  for  the  occur 
reiice  by  observing  that,  allowing  it,  was  true 
lie  Lid  M-en  her,  Fridoline  might  have  som 
humble  friend  among  the  prince's  depend 
ants  whom  she  went  to  vi>it. 

44  4  Wrong,  madam,'  he  replied  (Iliad 
him  I'  r  li'-  molness);  'this  young  per.x 
did  not  stop  at  the  Hotel  Danon  to  vi-it  an 
humble;  dependant,  a>  I  will  show  you.  Al 


er  my  rencontre  with  her  T  returned    to  mr 
partment,  and   as  it  was  a  fine  winter  even- 
ig,  I  seated  myself  for   awhile  at  the   win- 
ow  and  began  watching  the  passers-bv,  and 
be  opposite  house;  but  certainly  not  think- 
ng  of  the  young  girl  who   had  just   entered 
t.     I  had  a  particularly  good  view  of  the  in- 
crior  of  one  magnificent   salon,  the  curtains 
,nd  blinds  of  which  were  still  unclosed,  and, 
,s  the  twilight  was  deepening  and  the  room 
ighted  by  a  blazing  wood-fire,  I  could  dis- 
ern  all   the  objects  within  with  perfect  dis- 
inctness.     My  eyes  had  not  been  long  fixed 
ipon   this  window,  when   a   figure,   crossing 
Before  the  fire-place,  arrested  my  attention ; 
t  crossed  and  re-crossed,  evidently  pacing 
ip  and  down  the  room,  and  I  at  once   rec- 
)gnised  our  little   friend  of  the   fiacre.     She 
lad  removed  her  bonnet  and    shawl,  so  that 
'.  could   remark   the  extraordinary  quantity 
of  fair  hair  which  fell  round   her  nock   and 
shoulders,  and   this,  together  with  her  small 
igure,    gave   a   childishness   of  appearance 
;hat,  seeing  her  in   such  a  place,  made  me 
jity  her.     She  was  apparently  waiting  for 
some  one,  and  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  agi- 
;atian,  her  hands  clasped  together  upon  her 
3osom,  her  head  bent  down  as  she   walked, 
ft  struck   me  at  once  she  was  some   young 
girl  who  had  been   seduced  by  the  prince, 
aut  of  whom   he  had   afterwards   tired,  and 
that  she  had  now  come  to  make  a  last  appeal, 
to  his  honor  or  generosity.     And  this  con- 
viction   was    subsequently    strengthened    by 
the  fact  that  I  never  again  observed  her  en- 
ter the  hotel.     Well,  after  about  ten  minutes' 
waiting,  I  saw  her  suddenly  stop  in  her  hur- 
ried walk,  and   another  figure  entered  and 
crossed  the  room  towards  her.     For  a  mo- 
ment the  girl  seemed  to  hesitate  and  shrink 
back  ;  then  she  raised  her  head,  and,  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms,  fell  upon  the  neck  of  her 
companion,  in  a  long   and  apparently    pas- 
sionate  embrace.     After  this,    the  two   fig- 
ures moved  away  to  a  darker   part   of  the 
room,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  them,  for  in  a 
few  moments  an  attendant  entered  and  closed 
the  curtains.     I  cannot  be  actually   positive 
that  the  other  person   was  the   prince,  it  was 
about  his   height,  and  in   my    opinion  it  was 
he;   lint  I  could   swear   in  a  court   of  justice 
that  the  young  girl  1  saw   that    night  in    tho 
Hotel  Danon  and  your  friend  are  the  same.' 
"  I  hated  my  cousin,"  proceeded  Celeste, 
"  for  his  story,  and  told  him  so.      However, 
this  did  not    prevent  me  from  being  convinc- 
ed of  the   truth    of  what  he    siid.      lie    is  a 
matter-of-fact    person,  this  cousin  of  mine,  :i 
Paris  advocate,  and  not  likely  to  be  deceived 
by  imagination.      Hut  how   deeply  it  grieved 
nie    1    cannot    tell    yon.      For   a    tini"     ''Yidn- 
line\   austere  lilt-   seemed  to  me  only   hypoc- 
risy— with  her  cottage,  ami  her  (lowers,  and 
her  pets,  after    the  life  she    m:i>t    have  !ed  ill 
Paris — ami    I    could    have   hated   her   for  lier 
pretended    innocence.      However,    perhaps  [ 
was  to  blame.     The  recollection  ol  my  cons- 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


59 


in's  story  gradually  wore  off,  and  at  last  I 
have  ceased  to  think  of  it ;  or  rather,  1  am 
now  convinced  that,  if  Fridoline  would,  she 
might  explain  away  this  occurrence,  mysteri- 
ous though  it  appears." 

"  And  did  you  never  give  any  hint  to  show 
that  you  were  acquainted  with  something  of 
her  history,  and  thus  lead  her  to  speak  of 
it  herself?  " 

"  Oh,  no,1'  answered  Celeste,  with  true 
delicacy,  which  might  have  done  credit  to  a 
duchess.  "  As  she  wished  to  conceal  her  past 
life,  I  could  not  let  her  know  that  I  had  be- 
come possessed  of  any  clue  to  it.  I  have 
never  even  asked  her  if  she  has  seen  Paris." 

Philip  felt  strangely  depressed  by  what  he 
had  heard.  Though  far  from  believing  to 
the  full  the  evil  that  had  been  reported  of 
Fridoline,  he  was  now  forced  to  doubt  her; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  just  begin- 
ning to  discover  the  falseness  of  every  hu- 
man being  he  had  ever  liked  or  admired. 
This  thought  naturally  led  him  back  to  Rose, 
and  the  immediate  object  of  his  visit;  and, 
after  a  pause,  he  remarked, with  an  air  of  as- 
sumed indifference,  "  Well,  Celeste,  I  must 
confess  I  have  left  off  attempting  to  under- 
stand any  of  your  sex.  One  after  another 
all  my  early  prejudices  are  vanishing." 

The  actress  opened  her  great  black  eyes. 
"  (So,  he  has  found  Rose  out !)  I  hope  "you 
do  not  mean  that  I  am  changed  ? "  she  add- 
ed, aloud. 

*'  No—  "  replied  Philip,  "but  you  have 
certainly  altered  in  some  things  :  for  instance, 
a  year  ago  I  don't  think  you  would  have  gone 
to  one  of  Count  B 's  supper  parties." 

"  Count  B 's  supper  parties  !  I  enter 

Count  B 's  house ! "  cried  Celeste,  in  a 

burst  of  outraged  innocence.  "  And  who 
tell  you  dat  I  go  near  dat  monstre  ?  I  enter 
into  his  house ! "  In  her  indignation  she 
tried  to  talk  English. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Celeste,"  said  Philip, 
but  his  own  cheek  was  very  red;  "  I  was 
told  that  you  were  to  be  at  his  house  to-night, 
and  I  believed  it.  Forgive  me." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  said  Celeste,  resuming  her 
own  language,  «*  what  could  induce  people 
to  invent  such  wicked  scancal  ?  I,  who  am 
so  exacting  in  my  tastes,  who  unite  under  my 
roof  all  that  is  worthy  and  distinguished — I 
go  to  one  of  Count  B— *-'s  disgraceful  par- 
ties, with  chorus  singers  and  such  people  ! 
No,  Mr.  Earnsdiffe,  that  is  not  the  society  I 
frequent ;  and  I  did  not  think  so  old  a  friend 
as  yourself  would  hare  believed  such  infa- 
mies." 

At  another  time  Philip  might  have  been 
amused  at  Celeste's  excessive  tone  of  injury  ; 
but  he  was  too  much  taken  up  with  other 
thoughts  to  heed  it  now. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  rising  to 
take  leave.  "  I  little  thought  of  offending 
you  when  I  made  the  remark.  I  am  out  of 
spirits,  and  scarcely  know  what  I  am  talking 
about  this  morning." 


Celeste's  anger  was  short-lived ;  and  as 
she  held  his  hand  at  parting,  she  looked  very 
full  in  his  face,  and  said,  "  Pauvre  ami !  I 
believe  I  understand  your  feelings  far  better 
than  you  do  yourself." 

The  rest  of  the*  day  lagged  wearily  to 
Philip.  Proofs  of  Rose's  treachery  seemed 
to  confirm  all  that  Neville  had  ever  said  of 
her,  and  once  or  twice  he  thought:  "It 
would  have  been  better  to  let  her  accept 

Count  B 's  invitation,  and  break  with  her 

at  once.  Rose  is  not  the  first  that  has  been 
false  to  me,  and  I  could  go  abroad  and  forget 
her."  But  then,  again,  her  young  face  in 
its  sorrow  for  her  fault  arose  before  him  !  He 
could  not  believe  her  to  be  worse  than  child- 
ish, and  almost  longed  to  rush  to  her  house 
and  ask  her  forgive  to  him  for  his  suspicions. 
Philip's  own  nature  was  so  frank,  that  he 
shrank  with  actual  pain  from  the  idea  of  be- 
ing deceived  ;  and  he  turned  away  from  any 
thought  of  another's  unworthiness,  until  it 
had  strengthened  into  certainty.  Confiding, 
sensitive,  and  withal  somewhat  indolent,  he 
was  exactly  a  man  to  be  deceived,  not  once, 
but  dozens  of  times  in  his  life,  and  Rose, 
with  her  beauty,  and  guileless  manner,  was 
just  the  kind  of  woman  most  likely  to  de- 
ceive him. 

He  dined  at  his  club,  and  spent  the  even- 
ing there  with  two  or  three  old  acquaintances. 
One  of  them  had  just  returned  from  Italy, 
and  having  seen  Neville  in  Rome,  had  much 
to  tell  Philip  about  his  friend,  whose  genius 
and  cool  eccentricity  were  creating  quite  a 
sensation  among  the  English  in  the  Eternal 
City. 

"  From  some  caprice,"  he  said,  "  people 
want  Neville  to  be  the  fashion,  and  a  lion ; 
but  it  won't  do.  He  says  he  has  gone  to 
Italy  to  work,  and  refuses  nearly  all  invita- 
tions. Some  fair  Roman,  I  was  told,  even 
fell  in  love  with  his  bronzed  face  (he  looks 
like  a  Spaniard  after  all  his  wanderings), 
and  contrived  to  let  him  know  the  tender  na- 
ture of  her  feelings,  but  his  answer  was  cha- 
racteristic,— 

"  '  Signora,  I  have  no  time  ! ' 

"  Yet  there  was  nothing  churlish  or  selfish 
about  Neville;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  one  of 
the  best  fellows  in  the  world'  One  object, 
one  desire,  has  taken  hold  of  him,  and  he 
can  never  lose  sight  of  it,  or  be  drawn  away 
by  pleasure  either  of  the  soul  or  senses.  He 
will  be  a  great  artist !  " 

Philip  asked  if  he  had  done  any  large  pic- 
tures lately. 

"No,  he  was  only  studying,  spending  the 
entire  days  in  the  different  galleries,  and  in 
fine  weather  sketching  in  the  Campagna  or 
among  the  ruins  round  Rome.  He  seems 
thoroughly  happy,  your  friend  Neville,  and 
told  me  he  hoped  you  would  join  him  by  next 
winter." 

"  Perhaps  I  may,"  returned  Philip.  "  I 
am  very  undecided  at  present,  whether  to  go 
abroad  for  a  year  or  two  or  not." 


60 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


The  conversation  now  turned  into  other 
channels ;  and  about  twelve  o'clock  Philip 
started  to  walk  home.  It  was  warm  and 
starlight,  and  he  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the 
night  in  the  cfuiet,  undisturbed  streets.  He 
sauntered  along  slowly,  but  when  he  had 
nearly  reached  his  own  lodging,  a  sudden  fan- 
cy made  him  wish  to  extend  his  walk,  and 
scarcely  heeding  which  way  he  took,  he  went 
on  towards  the  Regent's  Park.  He  felt  calmed 
by  the  influence  of  the  stillness  around,  and 
his  mind  recovering  its  usual  frame,  he  thought 
less  about  Rose  Elmslie  than  he  had  done  all 
day.  Gradually  he  fell  into  one  of  his  old 
reveries,  and  walked  on  and  on,  entirely  lost 
in  himself,  and  thinking  of  his  starlight, 
walks  at  Harrow,  and  the  boyish  poetic  dreams 
which  then  filled  his  heart,  until  he  was  sud- 
denly aroused  by  loud  bursts  of  laughter, 
and  a  stream  of  light  across  his  path.  He 
looked  up,  and  to  his  surprise  became  con- 
scious that  he  was  exactly  opposite  Count 
B 's  villa.  The  occurrence  was  purely  ac- 
cidental. Philip  was  incapable  of  attempting 
to  watch  the  movements  of  Rose,  even  had  he 
still  doubted  her;  and  when  he  discovered 
where  he  was,  his  first  impulse  was  either  to 
pass  the  house  quickly,  or  retrace  his  steps 
homewards.  Some  after-thought,  however — 
perhaps  one  of  those  unaccountable  presages 
of  evil  which  every  one  must  so  often  have  ex- 
perienced in  his  own  life — made  him  pause. 

"  1  shall  go  home  happier,"  he  thought, 
"  when  I  have  seen  the  kind  of  a  party  from 
which  I  saved  poor  little  Rose  !  "• 

Hut  he  had  a  nervous  feeling  all  the  same. 
The  party  was  now  at  its  height ;  and,  to  ad- 
mit cool  air  to  the  heated  revellers  within, 
the  curtains  were  withdrawn,  and  the  win- 
dows on  the  ground-floor  thrown  wide  open, 
so  that  where  Philip  stood  he  had  a  full  view, 
through  the  shrubs  in  front  of  the  house,  of 
the  interior  of  the  supper-room.  It  was 
brilliantly  lit  up  with  groups  of  wax-lights, 
wreathed  round  with  artificial  flowers,  and 
the  night  air  was  laden  with"  the  scents  of 
costly  viands,  and  wines,  and  perfumes.  But 
this  voluptuous  refinement  was  confined  only 
to  the  externals  of  the  feast ;  the  peals  of 
laughter,  and  the  tawdry  theatrical  dress  of 
the  female  part  of  the  guests,  left  no  doubt 
about  the  class  to  which  they  belonged.  The 
men  seemed  mostly  friends  and  associates  of 
Count  B \s,  gamblers,  gentlemen,  swind- 
ler-, and  doubtful  foreign  noblemen. 

The   uproarious   merriment  waxed    louder 
and   stronger,    when   suddenly,    amidst    those 
bold    laughs  and  coarse  jests,  a  sweet   voung 
voi'-e   smote   on    Philip's   ear.    and    made  him 
turn  pale.      He  took   hold  of  the  iron  rail  by 
which  he  was  standing,  and  listened.       A'_rain 
and   again  he  heard  it.   clear  and  joyous,  the 
voice  of  Rnsc  ;   and.  with  a  desperate 
tion,  I'hilip  resolved  to  stop,  and  know  all. 
Changing    his  position  slightly,  he  saw  her 

at   (he    head  of  the    (able,    on    ( 'oillit    H 's 

right  hand.    Mushed   and  animated,  and  lovli- 


er  than  ever.  She  was  dressed  in  a  little 
ballet-looking  pink  dress,  her  exquisite  arms 
bare  almost  to  her  shoulder,  and  glittering 
with  gems  and  bracelets,  and  a  bouquet  of 
white  roses  (the  same  which  Philip  had  that 
day  given  her)  in  her  bosom.  There  was 
not  the  slightest  shade  upon  her  features  ( 
she  looked  as  she  felt,  radiantly  happy,  in 
her  beauty  and  her  jewels,  and  the  admira- 
tion she  awakened,  and  forgetful  of  that 
morning,  and  everything  else  besides.  Count 

B ,  evidently  under  the  influence  of  his 

own  champagne,  was  talking  to  her  in  b\v 
whispers,  his  arm  over  the  back  of  her  chair, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face.  The  rest 
of  the  guests  were  too  fully  occupied  with 
themselves  to  observe  them  much  ;  but  Philip 
noted  his  earnest  manner,  and  her  low  an- 
swers and  averted  eyes — noted  them,  as  Lady 
Clara  had  once  done  before,  when  he,  not 

Count  B ,  was  the  recipient  of  her  smiles 

and  blushes,  and,  whatever  Clara  had  then 
felt,  she  was  certainly  avenged  at  the  moment. 
Philip's  of  course  was  not  the  anguish  of  a 
boy  robbed  of  the  first  pure  love,  or  of  a 
man  suddenly  awakening  to  a  knowledge  of 
his  own  dishonor.  Rose  had  never  been 
anything  but  a  dancer ;  and  there  was,  per- 
haps, in  this  last  discovery  of  her  true  char- 
acter, nothing  to  be  wounded  but  Philip's 
vanity.  Still,  amidst  his  disappointments, 
his  own  fancy  had  raised  her  to  the  place 
which  should  have  been  held  by  a  worthier 
object.  He  had  believed  her  erring — never 
lost;  and  now,  as  he  saw  her  in  an  atmos- 
phere whose  very  breath  was  corruption,  sur- 
rounded by  women  from  the  lowest  grades 
of  her  own  profession,  and  receiving  with 
smiles  the  whispered  flatteries  of  a  world- 
hardened  sensualist  like  Count  B ,  a 

sense  of  mingled  disgust  and  regret  came 
I  over  him,  which,  without  being  agony,  was 
very  bitter. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  pause ;  and  the 
Count,  striking  on  the  table,  announced  to 
his  guests  that  Miss  Klmslie  was  going  to 
sing.  Rose  had  a  very  sweet  voice,  and  had 
often  sung  to  Philip  when  he  was  weary  and 
miserable. 

"  Bravo!  "  cried  a  pale  young  Frenchman 
opposite  her.  "  A  song  from  la  belle  Rose! 
Attention  !"  And  every  one  listened. 

"  What  shall  I  sing?"  said  llos.-. 

Several  songs  wen;  proposed,  but  .she 

turned  to  Count  B ,  as  though  appealing 

to  his  preference. 

At  fir>t  he  scarcely  understood  her.  then 
mentioned,  as  it  chanced,  a  favorite  ballad 
of  Philip's,  and  the  one  she  had  oftenest 
sung  to  him.  lie  saw  her  lace  change  a  lit- 
tle. 

••  Not  tint."  she  said:    "  any  but  t! 

"  And  why  imt  P"  relumed  tin;  Count  ; 
"  if  I  wish  iti  why  not  I  hat  :'  " 

"  1  have  forgotten  it,"    pleaded  Rose. 

"But  I  have  it,"  lie  went  on  with  tJio 
pertinacity  of  a  half-sober  man  ;  and  then  ha 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


61 


whispered  to  her  something  which  made  her 
smile. 

"Well,"  eried  Rose;  "  if  I  must;  but 
give  me  some  champagne  first,  my  lips  are 
too  dry  too  sing." 

He  poured  her  out  half  a  tumbler-full,  and 
she  drank  it  off,  and  began.  Her  voice  fal- 
tered at  first,  then  steadied  ;  and  except  that 
it  was  louder  and  less  modulated  than  usual, 
she  went  through  the  song  well. 

Philip  heard  her  till  she  had  finished — lis- 
tened to  the  loud  applause  that  followed — 
watching  her  smiling  thanks,  and  Count 

B \s  low  praises  and   increasing  warmth 

of  manner ;  and  then  he  turned  away  home- 
ward. He  had  seen  enough.  He  walked 
about  a  hundred  yards  away  from  the  house, 
until  the  last  faint  sounds  of  the  distant  revel 
had  died  away,  then  he  stopped.  His  arms 
were  folded,  and  the  dim  light  of  the  stars 
fell  full  upon  his  grave  face. 

"And  among  such  people."  he  exclaimed, 
*'  I  have  spent  my  existence  !  and  to  that 
very  woman  I  was  this  morning  ready  to 
give  my  love,  and  even,  in  some  measure, 
bind  my  future  life.  Good  God !  what  a 
fool  I  have  been  !  and  how  have  I  wasted  all 
my  hopes  and  energies  !  Well,  the  last  il- 
lusion is  over  now ;  this  little  dancer  has 
brought  the  finishing  stroke  to  my  belief  in 
any  human  being,  and  I  am  free.  Yes,"  he 
went  on,  passionately  ;  "as  free  as  a  man 
without  an  affection  or  tie  of  life  can  be.  It 
is  all  the  same — fortune,  friends,  wife,  mis- 
tress— all  faithless  !  " 

The  next  day  he  left  England. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  Philip  awoke  on  the  following 
morning  after  his  arrival  at  Kersaint,  the  sun 
was  shining  brightly  into  his  room.  For  a 
few  seconds,  he  could  not  remember  where 
he  was,  or  disengage  his  adventures  of  the 
evening  from  the  dreams  of  the  night — 
dreams  in  which,  it  must  be  confessed.  Mar- 
guerite had  still  held  a  prominent  place. 
Gradually,  however,  his  full  consciousness 
returned  ;  he  recalled  the  quaint  furniture  of 
his  sleeping-room,  and  the  murmuring  of  the 
sea  without,  and  he  rose  and  began  to  dress. 

His  toilet  was  just  finished,  when  he  heard 
a  merry  young  voice  immediately  under  his 
window,  in  conversation  with  another,  whose 
high,  loud  tones  he  soon  recognised  as  those 
of  Manon  ;  and  drawing  back  the  old-fash- 
ioned bolt  of  the  casement,  Philip  opened  it 
and  looked  out. 

It  was  a  sweet  May  morning;  every  trace 
of  the  storm  of  yesterday  had  disappeared 
and  only  left  the  grass  and  trees  more  bright- 
ly green  than  before.  The  air  came  in  fresh 
from  the  sea,  which  Philip  now  saw  at  the 


Bottom  of  the  garden,  blue  and  sparkling, 
)ut  still  bearing  small  crested  waves  upon 
ts  bosom.  The  sea-gulls  were  floating  hap- 
pily among  them,  or  skimming  towards  their 
icsts  among  the  rocks  ;  the  pigeons  wheeled 
n  circuits  round  the  manoir,  their  varied 
colors  gleaming  as  they  flew  in  the  red  morn- 
ng  sun  :  and  a  perfect  chorus  of  blackbirds 
and  thrushes  arose  from  the  orchard,  which, 
thick  with  pink  blossoms,  lay  on  the  left  side 
of  the  garden.  The  white  sails  of  some 
ishing-boats,  making  their  way  up  the  Chan- 
nel before  the  western  breeze,  and  the  toll- 
ng  of  a  very  distant  church  bell,  were  all 
that  belonged  to  humanity  in  the  scene,  until 
Philip,  leaning  somewhat  through  the  open 
window,  looked  down  ;  and  he  then  saw  his 
little  friend  of  the  previous  evening  and 
Manon — both  so  intent,  however,  in  watch- 
ing the  damages  done  by  the  rain  to  some  of 
the  garden  flowers,  that  for  the  last  few  sec- 
onds they  had  been  quite  silent. 

Philip  gazed  at  Marguerite  intently  ;  and, 
if  he  had  thought  her  lovely  the  evening  be- 
fore, his  admiration  now  was  enhanced  ten- 
fold. She  had  been  for  an  hour  or  more  in 
the  open  air,  and  her  cheeks  were  in  a  per- 
fect glow  of  health  and  freshness  ;  her  long 
hajr — rather  disordered,  for  she  never  wore 
a  bonnet  in  the  garden — hung  about  her  face,., 
and  caught  a  thousand  wavy  reflections  in 
the  sunshine  ;  her  full,  graceful  figure  showed 
to  perfection  in  a  close-fitting  Holland  dress  ; 
and,  as  she  held  it  high  out  of  the  damp 
gravel — an  unnecessary  precaution,  for  it 
was  already  short  enough — Philip  remarked 
that  not  even  the  thick  country-made  shoes 
could  conceal  the  symmetry  of  her  little  feet. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  bouquet  of  such 
flowers  as  the  rain  had  spared ;  and  Manon's 
basket  of  parsley  and  salads  showed  that 
they  had  already 'visited  the  kitchen  garden. 

*"'  Do  you  think  he  will  be  very  late  ?  "  cried 
Marguerite,  suddenly. 

"  The  English  monsieur?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  I  hope  so,  poor  gentleman  !  after  such  a 
wetting  as  he  had  yesterday,  there  is  nothing 
like  a  long  night's  rest.  I  remember  once, 
when  I  was  a  girl — it  will  be  just  six-and- 
thirty  years  next  All-hallows — my  father  was 
returning  from  Quimper,  one  stormy  night, 

"  Yes,  good  Manon."  interrupted  Mar- 
guerite, "  I  remember  all  about  it ;  and  he 
was  not  drowned,  you  know.  How  disap- 
pointing it  is,"  she  resumed,  to  herself,  "  to 
think  that  he  will  not  be  down  for  hours, 
perhaps !  arid  I  was  up  and  dressed  before 
five,  in  case  he  should  wake  early  and  want 
to  see  the  garden.  I  hope  the  curtains  of 
his  room  are  not  drawn,  and  then  the  sun 
may  shine  in,  and  wake  him.  Let  us  see  !-r 
and,  running  back  a  step  or  two,  Marguerite 
looked  up. 

There — leaning  forward,  so  tJiat  he  must 
have  overheard  every  word  she  said — was 


62 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


the  stranger.  He  bowed  to  her,  and  smiled, 
as  their  eyes  met.;  but  Marguerite  blushed 
deeply,  and  thinking  she  had  done  something 
wrong  in  talking  so  loud  under  his  window, 
the  called  hastily  to  Manon,  and,  without 
returning  his  salutation,  ran  away.  Philip 
followed  her  with  his  eyes  until  she  disap- 
peared on  the  side  of  the  orchard,  and  then, 
after  nodding  kindly  to  Manon,  who  all  the 
time,  had  fyeen  giving  him  a  series  of  bows 
and  smiles,  he  prepared  to  descend.  This 
was,  however,  not  quite  so  easy  a  matter  as 
one  might  think  at  first ;  the  passages  were 
so  intricate,  the  turnings  so  endless,  that 
Philip,  at  length,  almost  despaired  of  finding 
the  great  staircase,  and  he  was  just  making  a 
third  effort  to  do  so,  when  he  came  upon  a 
small,  dark  flight  of  winding  stairs,  commun- 
icating with  the  lower  part  of  the  building, 
and  down  these  he  proceeded  at  once.  At 
the  bottom  he  met  Manon,  who  was  hasten- 
ing to  the  kitchen  with  her  basket  of  vege- 
tables, and  her  dignity  was  greatly  wounded 
on  discovering  that  monsieur  had  descended 
by  the  servants'  stairs.  She  half  proposed 
to  accompany  him  again  to  his  apartment, 
and  conduct  him  down  by  the  legitimate 
mode  of  descent ;  but  Philip  interrupted  her 
with  a  smile,  and  said  he  was  glad  to  make 
acquaintance  with  all  parts  of  the  chateau, 
"which,"  he  added,  "  from  the  difficulty  I 
had  in  finding  my  way,  must  be  a  very  large 
building." 

"Ah,  monsieur?  "  returned  Manon,  "it 
is  a  noble  and  beautiful  place,  and  you  would 
think  so,  could  you  have  seen  it  in  former 
days ;  I  mean  when  we  first  came  to  live 
here.  Now  it  may  seem  a  little  lonely,  with 
only  my  master  and  mademoiselle,  and  not  a 
servant  save  me.  But  it  is  his  wish,  you 
see,"  she  added,  confidentially;  "  he  cannot 
bear  a  number  of  attendants  about  him,  and 
one  must  not  thwart  the  fancies  of  an  inva- 
lid." It  was  Manon's  grand  object  in  life  to 
conceal  her  master's  poverty,  and  she  took 
this  early  opportunity  of  accounting  to  the 
stranger  for  the  scantiness  of  the  household. 

"  I  fear  Mr.  St.  .John  is  far  from  well,'1 
remarked  Philip. 

Manon  looked  very  grave.  "  He  is  great- 
ly changed  in  the  fast  year,"  she  replied  ; 
"  and  unless  he  improves  much  during  this 
summer,  he  will  never  get  through  another 
such  a  winter  as  the  last." 

"  The  climate  must  be  severe  here,"  said 
Philip. 

"  Well,  if  is  not  very  cold — not  nearly  so 
(•'•M  :i<  in  Tuns,  for  example,  when-  I  lived 
with  my  dear  mistress  for  two  years  after  her 
marriage — hut  it  is  damp  and  foggy,  and  so 
much  exposed  to  sto'-ms,  that  it  is  ;ilmosf  im- 
po»i!,|c  fl,r  an  invalid  to  get  out  from  No- 
vember tifl  May.  It  does  not  hurt  those  in 
lie;tlth — my  young  lady  is  as  blooming  as  a 
ro.sc  in  tin-  drcarie.-t  weather,  and  of  course 
nothing  can  hurt  me,  a  Breton  peasant — Imt 
for  my  master,  Keruaint  Is  no  good  phi-  «•/' 


"  His  daughter  seems  unaware  that  Mr. 
St.  John  is  in  any  danger,"  observed  Philip. 

"And  may  the  bon  Dieu  forbid  that  she 
should  be  otherwise,"  returned  Manon,  hasti- 
ly. "  She  will  have  sorrow  enough  when  ho 
is  gone,  and  she  is  thrown  upon  strangers, 
without  having  trouble  forced  upon  her  now. 
I  like  to  see  her  smiling  and  joyous,  my  poor 
child  ;  and  I  am  glad,  monsieur,  very  glad, 
that  you  have  arrived  to  bear  her  and  my 
master  a  little  company.  There  are  none  in 
this  neighborhood  fit  for  them  to  associate 
with." 

Philip  quite  won  Manon's  heart  by  his  evi- 
dent interest  in  her  master's  health ;  and, 
after  a  few  minutes,  she  volunteered  to  show 
him  round  the  garden.  "  Mademoiselle  is 
there,"  she  said,  "  and  as  my  master  will  not 
be  down  quite  yet,  perhaps  monsieur  would 
like  to  walk  for  half  an  hour  on  the  terrace 
before  breakfast." 

But  Philip  said  he  should  find  his  way  per- 
fectly this  time,  and,  leaving  Manon  to  pro- 
ceed to  her  kitchen  duties,  he  went  out 
through  a  low  archway  into  the  garden.  The 
good  order  of  the  flower-borders  struck  him 
immediately  as  contrasted  with  the  desolate- 
looking  house,  broken  flights  of  steps,  and 
the  disordered  state  of  the  Avails  and  fences. 
He  judged  rightly  that  the  little  fairy  of  his 
night's  dreams  presided  over  this  portion  of 
the  garden,  and  he  looked  on  all  sides  in 
search  of  her;  but  she  was  nowhere  visible. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  further  end,  and 
reached  the  terrace,  from  whence  he  could 
see  over  the  adjoining  orchards  and  meadows 
— but  still  no  Marguerite. 

•'  Can  she  really  be  offended,"  thought 
Philip,  "because  I  overheard  her  talking  of 
me  ?  No,  she  is  too  child-like  for  that." 

He  took  a  few  turns,  every  moment  ex- 
pecting to  see  her,  but  when  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  passed  on,  and  she  did  not  appear,  he 
grew  impatient ;  and,  spying  a  flight  of  moss- 
grown  steps,  which  led  down  to  the  .sands, 
he  resolved  to  go  and  walk  by  the  sea-side 
for  an  hour,  and  fin-get  this  capricious  little 
lady.  lie  sprang  down,  three  sh  ps  at  once, 
and  suddenly  discovered  Marguerite,  seated 
at  the  bend  of  the  wall,  on  a  projecting  slab 
of  granite,  and  making  up  bouquets  from  a 
heap  of  spring  flowers  in  her  Jap.  Philip 
stopped  short." 

"  (Jood  morning,  mademoiselle.11 

"  Good  morning/'  She  turned  her  f:ic« 
quite  away  from  him,  with  a  li-rling  of  shy- 
ness she  had  never  before  experienced  in 
her  life.  Had  she  really  said  something  SO 

wrong  when  he  overheard  her!' 

"  I  thought  you  were  lo-i,  and  have  been 
search! n;/  f>>r  yon  all  over  the  ;;ar«lcn."  \o 
answer.  She  could  not  confc»  that  she  had 
run  awav  from  him. 

"  Ah  !  "    >aid    Philip,    next  :    "  1 
are  very  an^ry  with  me  for  m.-i -In -a-ing  you; 
but  it  wa*    not    my  fault.       1  opened  my  win- 
dow, to    listen    to  the    bird.-,  and   I  «>uld  not 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


63 


help  it,  if  your  voice  was  amongst  them — 
indeed,  at  first  I  did  not  distinguish  it  from 
thoirs ! " 

Marguerite  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  showed  her  her 
mistake :  he  thought  her  offended.  Young 
as  she  was,  this  idea  gave  her  pleasure,  and, 
to  keep  it  up  she  tried  hard  not  to  smile ; 
then — shaking  her  curls  so  as  to  conceal  her 
face — bent  down  again,  and  went  on  with 
her  bouquets.  Philip  seated  himself  on  the 
step,  at  her  feet,  and  began  watching  her 
very  gravely  ;  but  Marguerite  could  not  get 
on  half  so  well  with  her  work  now.  as  she 
had  done  before  he  came,  and  once  or  twice 
the  flowers  slipped  from  her  hands  as  she 
was  fastening  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  at  last,  "  I  am  sure  I 
could  make  up  bouquets  better  than  you  do. 
You  place  all  the  wrong  colors  together ;  " 
and  he  took  the  scissors  from  her  hand,  and 
some  of  the  best  flowers  from  her  collection, 
and  laying  then  on  the  steps  beside  him,  be- 
gan very  leisurely  to  arrange  them.  He  had 
naturally  a  good  eye  for  harmony  of  color, 
but  he  now,  purposely,  assorted  them  as  ill 
as  he  could.  Yellow  primroses  he  placed  by 
pink  hawthorn,  violets  with  the  bright  blue 
hepatica,  so  that  the  color  of  each  was  de- 
stroyed by  its  neighbor;  then  he  tied  .them 
in  prim,  regular  bunches,  each  stalk  exactly 
the  same  length,  and  with  no  mixture  of 
green  leaves,  but  all  the  time  preserving  a 
countenance  of  the  most  perfect  seriousness, 
as  though  he  were  performing  the  task  to  the 
best  of-  his  ability.  Marguerite  looked  at 
him  from  under  her  long  eye-lashes,  and 
tried  hard  to  repress  a  sly  smile  at  the  hide- 
ous little  bouquets,  and  Philip's  air  of  satis- 
faction with  himself.  But  it  would  not  do, 
and  at  length  she  was  forced  to  cover  the 
lower  part  of  her  face  with  one  hand.  Philip 
looked  up,  and  saw  her  eyes  laughing. 

"  I  flatter  myself  mine  are  arranged  with 
taste,"  he  remarked. 

Here  Marguerite  could  hold  out  no  longer ; 
clasping  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  she 
went  into  such  a  long  fit  of  childish  laughter, 
as  did  Philip  good  to  hear.  It  was  a  minute 
or  two  before  she  could  speak  ;  at  length  she 
cried,  "  So  that  is  English  taste!  and  those 
are  English  nosegays  !  Oh  !  I  am  glad  I  have 
seen  them."  And  again  she  broke  into 
clear  merry  laugh. 

Philip  looked  astonished. 
"  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  admire  them?' 
he  said.     "  Well,  I  thought  they  were  per- 
fect— so  neat  and  regular ;    but,  of  course 
you  are  right.     Suppose  you  give  me  a  les- 
son :   I  want  to  know  how  everything  is  done 
in  Brittany." 

He  cut  all  the  strings,  and,  mixing  the 
flowers  together,  returned  them  into  Mar- 
guerite's lap.  This  little  scene  had  made  her 
feel  perfectly  at  her  ease  with  him  again 
arid,  believing  that  he  was  quite  in  earnest  ii 
his  wish  to  learn,  she  gathered  up  the  flovvero 


n  her  frock,  and,  seating  herself  on  the  step 
lose  beside  him,  said  she  would  teach  him. 
["he  lesson  began,  and  lasted  long.  Philip 
vas  very  slow  to  learn,  and  Marguerite  had 

0  give  him  a  thousand  practical  instructions, 
which  he  never  could  master  until  the  second 

r  third  trial.  She  was  quite  interested  and 
serious,  and  her  impatience  was  great  when 
icr  long  bright  curls  would  fall  upon  their 
vork  and  interrupt  them. 

'  Am  I"  very  slow  ?  "  asked  Philip,  as 
Marguerite  was  trying  to  bend  his  fingers  to 
,heir  task. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  not  slow — but  I 
ihink  vou  a  little " 

"  What?  I  like  to  hear  my  faults." 

"  A  little  perverse.  Your  hands  do  not 
ook  awkward,  and  yet  you  ioi.il  not  learn  to 
lold  the  flowers  more  lightly.  Now,  let  me 
show  you  once  more,  or  you  will  make  it 
ook  like  another  English  nosegay  ;  "  and  she 
cnelt  on  the  step  beneath  him,  in  her  earnest- 
ness guiding  his  hands  with  her  own,  and 
every  minute  looking  up  and  smiling  in  his 
ace. 

"  You  have  made  that  last  one  beauti- 
fully ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  better  than  mine  !  " 

1  believe,  after  all,  you   only  pretended    to 
take  a  lesson,  and  have  been  arranging  flow- 

rs  all  your  life." 

**  Well,  it  is  so  very  pleasant  to  learn!  " 
answered  Philip. 

"Is  it?  Ah!  not  always.  I  do  not  like 
my  irregular  verbs  with  Monsieur  le  Cure, 
par  example  ;  but  I  might  like  to  learn  from 
some  people." 

"  From  me,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Y — es,  perhaps." 

"  A  very  hesitating  answer.  I  am  sorry  I 
look  so  bad  tempered." 

"Oh!  it  is  not  that,  I  assure  you,  for  I 
told  Manon  I  never  liked  any  face  so  much 
as  yours  before.  But,  then,  you  are  too 
young  for  a  master.  Just  when  you  meant 
to  be  very  severe,  I  should  look  in  your  face 
and— laugh." 

"  Then,  I  must  not  offer  to  give  you  les- 
sons in  English  pronunciation,  as  I  had  in- 
tended." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  may;  only,  you  must 
promise  not  to  be  too  severe,  and  not  to  be 
offended,  if  I  sometimes  forget  to  be  grave." 

At  last/  all  the  flowers  were  gone,  and 
they  had  finished  four  bouquets. 

"  One  for  rny  father,  one  for  you,  and  one 
a-piece  for  Manon  and  me." 

"  And  who  is  this  for?"  he  asked,  taking 
up  the  one  in  which  Marguerite  had  collected 
all  the  most  delicate  and  sweet-scented  flow- 
ers, even  to  a  rose-bud,  which  she  had  dis- 
covered under  shelter  of  the  terrace. 

"That  is  for  father,  of  course ;  but  you 
shall  have  the  next  best." 

"  And  which  for  yourself,  Mademosielle  ?  " 

"  AVel!,  Manon  must  choose,  and  which- 
ever is  left  is  for  me.  Do  not  call  me  mad- 
emoiselle, please.  Father  says,  as  long  as  I 


64 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


am  a  child,  every  one  should  call  me  Mar- 
guerite.11 

*«  And  are  you  only  a  child  still  ?  " 

"Oh!"  she  answered,  smiling.  "I  am, 
indeed.  I  often  wish  that  I  were  older  and 
wiser,  for  his  sake ;  but  in  two  months  I 
shall  be  sixteen,  and  that,  you  know,  is  o;et-. 
ting  on  towards  being  grown-up.  Shall  we 
go  down  to  the  beach  before  breakfast?" 

She  ran  lightly  down  the  steps,  and  they 
were  soon  close  to  the  sea.  It  was  now  low 
water,  and  there  was  a  wide  expanse  of 
shining  dry  sand,  stretching  far  away  before 
them.  Philip  felt  a  new  sense  of  youth  and 
life  as  they  walked,  and  Marguerite,  holding 
her  flowers,  her  up-turned  face  more  bloom- 
ing than  they,  and  her  hair  dancing  about  over 
her  shoulders,  was  soon  talking  to  him  with 
all  the  unrestraint  of  the  previous  evening. 

She  possessed  a  rare  charm — one  with 
which  he  had  never  before  chanced  to  be 
thrown  in  contact — that  of  perfect  innocence. 
And  Philip,  who,  a  few  weeks  back,  had 
pronounced  his  last  youthful  illusion  over, 
now  became  conscious — while  he  gazed  into 
this  young  face  and  read,  through  all  her 
child-like  manner,  the  deep,  tender  nature 
of  Marguerite — that  the  true  illusion  of  life 
— the  .first  love  which  bathes  the  whole  earth 
in  golden  glory — had  for  him  never  yet 
dawned. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

PHILIP'S  childhood,  after  his  parents'  death, 
having  been  passed  exclusively  among  his 
own  sex,  he  had  never,  as  a  boy,  known  the 
sweet  love  of  mother  or  sister ;  and,  as  he 
grew  up,  the  women  with  whom  he  had  been 
most  intimate  were  Clara  St.  Leger  and  her 
mother — the  one  a  mere  woman  of  the  world, 
the  other  cold  and  unnatural  from  her  educa- 
tion. In  society  he  had  certainly  met  hun- 
dreds of  young  ladies — many  of  them,  love- 
ly, all,  of  course,  innocent  and  interesting, 
and  ready  to  become  excellent  wives — but 
these  were  uniformly  "  young  ladies,"  well 
trained,  well  paced,  well  looked  after,  and  they 
had  lieen  trotted  out  in  rotation  before  Philip 
without  one  of  them  effecting  more  than  the 
awakening  of  a  passing  fancy  in  his  mind. 
The  miserable,  failure  of  his  married  life  had 
been  his  next  trial  of  what  ought,  to  be  love, 
and  the  society  of  actresses  the  crowning 
stroke  of  his  experience. 

No  wonder  the  companionship  of  Mar- 
guerite seemed  something  far  apart  from  all 
lie  had  known  before  !  No  wonder,  as  they 
walked  along,  Philip  forgot  the  wide  gulf 
which,  in  reality,  separated  them.  Hr  al- 
ready worhl-stained  and  weary,  and  bound 
by  a  tic  which  mu-t  for  ever  shut  him  out  of 
tin-  pale  df  all  pure  love  ;  Marguerite,  will. 
the  holiness  of  childhood  yet  upon  her  fore- 


head, and  no  knowledge  of  life,  except  that 
the  sky  was  blue  above  her,  and  that  God 
was  good.  He  only  felt  that  a  sinless  na- 
ture was,  at  length,  before  him,  and  that  the 
true  love  he  had  written  about,  but  never 
found,  would  some  day  awaken  in  Marguer- 
ite's heart — for  whom  ? 

"You  look  thoughtful,  monsieur;  that  is 
your  grave  look  now." 

"  I  believe  my  looks  are  always  grave." 

"No;  not  when  we  were  tying  up  the 
flowers.  Then  you  looked  very  happy." 

"  Are  you  often  grave.  Marguerite  ?  " 
', ;"  Not  very  often;  but  sometimes  I  am 
more  than  grave.  When  my  father  looks  so 
pale,  and  begins  to  speak  of  my  mother,  and 
that  it  would  be  far  better  for  him  to  he  with 
her,  I  come  out,  alone,  on  the  shore,  and 
feel  something  here," —  she  laid  her  hand  on 
her  heart — "  which  I  cannot  describe — a 
thick,  dull  weight  it  is — and  then  I  almost 
wish  to  die.  I  seldom  feel  this  great  pain, 
however,  except  when  it  is  connected  with 
father ;  but  often  of  an  evening,  when  the 
sun  is  down,  and  the  stars  are  coming  out 
one  by  one  over  the  sea,  and  I  sit  by  the 
window  alone,  or,  in  summer,  down  on  the 
terrace,  I  feel,  not  unhappy — that  is  not  the 
word — but  [  miss  something,  you  understand, 
and  then  I  am  very  grave ;  and  the  more 
beautiful  the  sea  and  the  stars  look,  the  more 
I  feel  lonely.  I  never  felt  this  when  I  was 
younger,  only  the  last  year  or  two ;  and  yet 
I  have  my  father  and  Manon  with  me  just  the 
same  now  as  formerly.  Did  you  ever  feel 
the  same?" 

"  Yes,  years  ago,  when  I  was  your  age,1' 
replied  Philip. 

"  But  you  are  not  very  old  now." 

"  Old  enough  to  gaze  at  the  stars  without 
becoming  sad." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly  to  be  quite  sure 
he  was  not  laughing  at  her ;  but  there  was 
no  smile  on  his  face. 

"Have  you  any  mother?"  she  asked, 
softly,  and  touching  his  hand  with  her  own. 

"'She  died  when  I  was  a  young  child." 

"Or  sister,  or " 

"  I  have  no  one, "answered  Philip,  shortly. 

"Ah!" — and  the  little  hand  closed  upon 
his — "and  I  have  no  one  but  my  lather! 
Hut  when  you  have  one  person  to  lo\e,  you 
do  not  wish  for  any  other.  It  must  bo 
dreadful  to  he  quite  alone/1  After  a  pans* 
she  resumned  timidly,  "  Did  you  say  you 
would  remain  half  the  summer  in  IJivtagne  ? '' 
••  res,"  replied  Philip  ;  "  what  1  had  already 
seen  of  it  made  me  wish  to  stay  :  but,  since 
yext, . nlay,  1  have  quite  determined  upon 
doing  so." 

it  was  one  of  those  accustomed  compli- 
ments which  pass  current,  and  mean  nothing 
in  society  ;  but  Marguerite's  heart  actually 
throbbed.  "  That  is  since  he  has  known 
mi-,"  she  thought.  Then  she  added,  aloud, 
"  I  shall  think  1  have  a  brother  while  you 
are  here." 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


65 


Thoy  had  now  wandered  to  some  distance 
Dn  the  sands,  and  a  clear,  Wide  stream  of 
fresh  water,  running  towards  the  sea,  formed 
a  barrier  to  their  further  progress.  They 
were  just  hesitating  about  fording  it,  and 
J^  arguerite  was  saying  she  had  done  so  doz- 
ens of  times  before,  when  one  of  them  hap- 
pening to  turn,  descried  Marion,  barely  visi- 
ble on  the  terrace,  in  the  far  distance,  wav- 
ing her  arms  and  throwing  up  her  apron  in 
a  wild  state  of  excitement.  The  breakfast 
was  ready,  and  poor  Manon  for  some  min- 
utes— with  feelings  none  but  a  cook  can  ap- 
preciate— had  been  watching  the  guest  walk 
further  and  further  away  from  his  meal,  and 
feeling  herself  powerle  s  to  recall  him. 
When  they  halted,  her  hopes  of  being  seen 
revived  ;  and  she  soon  thankfully  perceived 
that  they  had  understood  her  signals,  so  'she 
ran  in  to  keep  the  coffee  hot,  and  to  tell  her 
master  that  thev  were  coming. 

Mr.  St.  John  was  seated  in  his  library — 
the  room  in  which  they  were  to  breakfast — 
wra'pped  in  a  loose  dressing-gown,  and  with 
a  book  already  in  his  hand.  This  room  was 
the  wannest  in  the  house,  being  smaller  than 
most  of  the  others,  and  with  a  southern  as- 
pect; and  here  the  invalid  generally  spent 
the  entire  winter.  The  walls  and  ceiling 
were  all  of  oak  panelling.  Scarcely  any  of 
the  former,  however,  were  to  be  seen,  for 
well-stored  bookcases  stood  on  each  side  of 
the  room.  An  English  carpet  covered  the 
floor,  and  the  worked  cushions  on  the  win- 
dow-seats, the  footstool  and  warm  easy-chair, 
and  a  dozen  little  home-constructed  luxuries, 
bore  witness  to  the  female  care  which  presid- 
ed over  the  occupant's  comfort.  The  win- 
dow opened  upon  the  garden,  and  Mr.  St. 
John  soon  saw  Philip  and  his  daughter  de- 
scending from  the  terrace,  both  looking  ani- 
mated, and  Marguerite  laughing  merrily  at 
something  her  companion  was  saying;  and 
as  the  invalid  watched  them,  evidently  so 
well  pleased  with  each  other,  a  thought  arose 
which  caused  a  faint  smile  to  wander  across 
his  face.  Perhaps,  had  this  vague  hope  been 
rendered  into  words  it  might  have  been — 
"  Alter  all,  it  is  possible  that  I  may  leave 
my  child  with  a  protector  !  "  Their  entrance, 
however,  dispelled  any  such  dreams  for  th 
present,  and,  alter  a  cordial  greeting,  the 
trio  were  soon  seated  at  their  cheerful  break- 
fast. 

Philip  did  great  justice  to  Manon1s  provis 
ions,  all  of  which  were  excellent.  Clear 
strong  coffee — such  as  he  had  vainly  wished 
for  with  his  own  grand  English  cook — fresh 
eggs,  broiled  fish,  caught  that  morning  ir 
the  bay,  butter  of  Manon's  own  making, 
constituted  the  staple  of  the  meal.  Mr.  St. 
John  smiled  at  the  hearty  good-will  witli 
which  his  guest  attacked  his  breakfast;  and 
then  turning  to  Marguerite,  asked  her  wh} 
she  eat ;  so  little.  She  could  not  reply  that 
she  was  too  happy  to  be  hungry,  which  was 
the  truth,  but  said  Manon  had  cut  her  such 
6 


a  huge  tartine  early  in  the  morning,  that  she 
lad  no  further  appetite. 

"  Perhaps,  we  walked  too  far,1'  added  Phil- 

P- 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  "  'too  far1 
are  words  unknown  to  Marguerite.  She 
spends  the  whole  of  her  idle  life  out  of  doors, 
"n  summer,  and,  I  verily  believe,  never  ex- 
periences such  a  thing  as  fatigue.  Where* 
did  you  get  all  these  flowers,  little  one  ?  " 

"  I  had  such  a  hunt  for  them,  father  !  Tho 
rain  has  beaten  down  the  best,  and  I  could 
only  gather  those  which  grew  in  very  shel- 
tered places.  Do  you  see  that  rose-bud  in 
yours? — the  first  this  summer,  petit  papa." 

"  But  you  should  have  presented  that  to 
your  visitor." 

'•  No,  no !  The  first  rose  is  always  for 
you.  But  I  have  given  Mr.  Earsncliffe  a 
lesson  in  bouquet-making  this  morning.  It 
was  so  pleasant  sitting  on  the  terrace  step* 
in  the  warm  sun  ;  and  do  you  know,  father, 
just  when  we  finished,  I  found  out  that  1m 
had  only  been  pretending,  and  could  make 
them  'as  well  as  I  all  the  time  ?  N'est  ce  pa* 
qu'il  est  mediant  ce  monsieur?  " 

The  conversation  went  on  merrily,  and 
Mr.  St.  John  appeared  in  such  good  spirits, 
and  so  animated,  that  Philip  thought  he  must 
have  been  mistaken  in  considering  him  dan- 
gerously ill.  They  talked  much  about  the 
inhabitants  and  antiquities  of  Brittany,  ami 
Mr.  St.  John's  invitation  of  the  previous 
evening,  to  remain,  at  least  for  some  days, 
at  Kersaint,  was  repeated,  seconded  by  an 
eloquent  look  from  Marguerite,  and  cordial- 
ly accepted  by  Philip.  He  felt  that  he  was 
with  old  friends  already. 

After  breakfast,  when  Marguerite  had  re- 
tired to  confer  with  Manon  on  domestic  mat- 
ters, Earnscliffe  began  to  notice  his  host's 
extensive  collection  of  books,  and  led  him 
on  gradually  to  speak  of  them,  and  of  him- 
self. 

"  My  books  have  been  my  sole  friends,, 
except  my  child,  for  sixteen  years."  said  Mr.. 
St.  John;  "  and  I  have  grown  so  accustom- 
ed to  look  upon  them  in  the  light  of  human* 
beings,  that  I  scarcely  now  am  conscious  of 
the  absence  of  other  companionship.  At. 
your  time  of  life,  such  an  existence  as  mint* 
must  appear  a  kind  of  living  death.  It  i& 
only  after  a  man  has*  outlived  ambition,  ami 
lost  the  ties  of  domestic  life,  that  he  can  find 
in  himself  a  happier  resting  place  than  in  tho 
world.  Are  you  anything  of  a  bookworm 
like  myself?  If  so,  in  this  case,  nearest  the- 
fire-place,  there  are  some  rare  works  likely; 
to  interest  you ;  and  should  we  have  w«jt 
weather  during  your  stay  at  Kersaint,  you 
might  find  a  day's  employment  among  thein.'* 
Philip  thought  that  Marguerite's  face 
would  be  better  reading  than  the  somewhat 
ponderous  volumes  alluded  to  by  her  father. 
However,  he  entered  with  animation  into  the 
subject  which  formed  the  one  interest  of  the 
invalid's  life,  and  they  were  soon  deep  in  lit- 


66 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


erary  talk.  Mr.  St.  John  had  been  so  long 
absent  from  England,  that  he  was  anxious  to 
hear  about  all  the  new  writers  of  the  day ; 
and  had  also  numbers  of  old  friends  to  in- 
quire for,  most  of  whom  were  now  either 
dead  or  retired  from  their  active  life. 

"  Tiien,  who  is  the  most  popular  writer  of 
fiction  now?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

Philip  knew  that  his  own  was  one  of  the 
rising  names  in  the  field  of  romantic  litera- 
ture ;  he  replied,  however,  by  naming  sev- 
eral others  of  the  more  distinguished  authors. 

•*  And  of  poetry  ?  " 

*'  Well,  that  is  easily  replied  to — none. 
Since  the  galaxy  of  poetic  genius,  which 
arose  in  Germany  and  England  early  in  this 
century,  the  race  seems  to  have  died  out. 
Writers  of  poems  we  have  many,  and  one 
whose  thoughts,  when  not  utterly  obscured 
by  affectation,  are  so  sweet — his  word-paint- 
ing so  true — that  one  is  half  tempted  at  times 
to  call  him  a  poet.  Still,  not  even  his  will 
be  a  lasting  fame.  We  have  no  collossal 
genius  now  that,  like  Shakspeare,  or  Dante, 
or  Cervantes,  can  create  at  once  and  for  ever 
an  absorbing  interest — take  fast  hold  upon 
the  hearts  of  all  classes  of  readers,  and  be- 
come a  familiar  household  god  beyond  the 
power  of  fashion  to  cast  down.  Wordsworth 
and  Moore,  certainly,  still  live  ;  but  they  be- 
long to  the  past.  England  has  now  no  great 
poet. 

"  And  France  in  my  opinion,  has  never 
had  one.  Fond  as  I  am  of  some  portions  of 
French  literature,  their  artificial,  monotonous 
verse — with  the  single  exception  of  Beran- 
ger's  songs,  perhaps — sends  me  to  sleep. 
But  every  day  I  make  my  little  daughter  read 
aloud  to  me  some  of  our  own  Milton  or 
Shakespeare  ;  if  she  is  too  young  fully  to  un- 
derstand them,  she  can  yet  read  well ;  and 
would  you  believe,  sir,  that  hour  is  pleasant- 
er  to  me  than  the  remaining  ten  of  my  own 
studies — so  fond  are  we  all  of  anything  whi'-h 
seems  to  connect  genius  with  ourselves?  and 
the  child's  voice  makes  me  actually  feel  those 
glorious  thoughts  my  own  more  than  all  the 
annotations  upon  them  that  ever  were  writ- 
ten. " 

Philip  said  he  could  well  believe  this,  and 
after  a  minute  or  two  added,  simply — "  Your 
daughter  is  very  lovely,  sir." 

41  Is  she  so?  "  returned  Mr.  St.  John,  al- 
most starting.  *'  Well,  I  never  thought 
about  it.  before.  Of  course,  she  is  fair  in 
my  eyes;  but  I  have,  not  yet  considered  (hat 
she  would  be  called  beautiful  by  others.  It 
i.-  po-Hble,"  he  added,  dreamily,  "  she  is  like 
Irer  mother." 

His  face  relapsed  into  its  habitual  melan- 
choly at  llii-  recollection — it  ;il \vays  did  so  at 
any  allusion  to  his  wife — and  Philip  began  to 
think  that  her  death  mn>l  have  been  the  ori- 
gin of  Mr.  St.  John's  diMiiclinatioii  for  tin- 
world. 

"  Shall  you  venture  out  to-day?"  he  in- 
quired, hoping  to  change  his  thoughts. 


"  Xo  I  thank  you.  The  ground  is  still 
damp,  and  the  wind  too  uncertain  for  me. 
But  you  must  not  remain  in  the  house  thia 
fine  spring  day  on  my  account.  See,  Mar- 
guerite's is  already  in  the  garden,  doubtless, 
expecting  you  to  join  her  for  a  walk." 

Philip  saw  that  the  invalid  preferred  being 
alone,  and  he  was  soon  by  Marguerite's  side 
in  the  garden,  helping  her  to  tie  up  some 
flowers  that  had  suffered  from  the  rain. 
When  they  had  finished,  she  proposed  a 
long  walk ;  and,  crossing  the  orchard,  they 
started  through  heaths  and  forests  to  some 
ruins  about  a  league  distant. 

Marguerite  did  not  care  much  for  wet 
paths,  and,  in  taking  Earnscliffe  a  short  way 
of  her  own  discovery,  sprang  lightly  over 
streams  and  bushes  in  a  manner  rather  sur- 
prising to  eyes  only  accustomed  to  London 
younor  ladies.  A  little  straw  bonnet,  which 
the  wind  blew  incessantly  from  her  head,  and 
a  scarf  round  her  throat,  were  the  only  addi- 
tions to  her  morning  dress ;  and  yet,  thus 
attired,  and  running  wild  in  the  wildest  parts 
of  Brittany,  no  stranger  could  have  met 
Marguerite  without  being  struck  by  her  easy, 
high-born  carriage,  and  the  natural  grace 
which  made  everything  she  wore  becoming. 
She  was  in  high  spirits  at  having  to  conduct 
Philip,  and  pointed  out  to  him,  as  they  went 
along,  all  her  favorite  summer  haunts. 

After  traversing  a  forest  of  fir  trees — whose 
peculiar  odor  in  the  warm  sun  struck  Mar- 
guerite on  that  morning  as  more  than  usually 
fragrant — they  reached  a  wide  tract  of  heath, 
an  angle  of  which  must  be  crossed  before 
reaching  the  gentle  eminence  where  stood 
the  ruined  chapel.  It  was  a  scene  rendered 
grand  in  its  flat  monotony  by  its  utter  loneli- 
ness. As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  there 
was  no  habitation,  no  trace  of  man,  nothing 
but  the  purple  moorlands,  until  they  failed 
away  into  blue  distance,  or  enormous  tracts 
of  untrodden  fir  forests.  Life,  however,  was 
riot  wanting — that  mysterious  life,  which  re- 
joices everywhere,  and  is  most  exuberant 
where  man  is  not.  Myriads  of  gossamers 
floated  on  the  golden  air  in  their  perishing 
fairy  craft;  wild  bees  murmured  amidst  the 
gorse  :  the  grasshopper  called  joyously  from 
his  bed  of  wild  thyme;  and  the  lark  hovered 
high  in  the  pure  space  abo\e,  and  unbur- 
dened his  little  heart  of  its  melodious  glad- 


When  they  were  about  halfway  across  the 
heath,  Marguerite  pointed  out  to  her  com- 
panion a  singular-looking  heap  of  stones, 

which  she  told  him  were  I  >r.iidic  remains,  and 
proposed  that  they  should  rr>t  there  awhilo 
ami  look  about  them.  "  For."  she  added 
naively,  the  walk  will  be  too  cjuiekly  over  if 

we   ijet    oil   SO   li^t."1 

Philip  said  he  should  enjoy  nothing  better; 
and  thev  were  soon  side  by  side  on  the  high- 
Mf  -|..ne  of  the  pile,  whieli  formed  a  kind 
of  throne  among  the  others.  Hello,  who  ac- 
companied them,  but  had  lingered  behind  in 


PHILIP  EAENSCLTFFE. 


67 


the  forest  (where,  on  the  score  of  old  recol-  | 
lections,  lie  was  fond  of  taking  private  excur- 
sions after  game,  on  his  own  account),  now 
came  up,  and  extended  his  grisly  length  at 
their  feet,  shutting  his  eyes  in  the  sun  with 
luxurious  enjoyment  of  its  warmth,  and  for- 
getting in  his  happiness  to  bestow  any  more 
surly  looks  on  the  stranger. 

"*How  fair  it  all  is  !  "  said  Marguerite,  at 
length. 

The  words  recalled  to  Philip  that  day  when 
he  sat  on  Hampstead  Heath  by  little  Frido- 
line,  and  she  had  made  use  of  a  nearly  simi- 
lar expression,  and  he  contrasted  in  his  own 
mind  the  immense  difference  between  these 
two  young  creatures ;  one  so  happy  in  her 
ignorance  of  what  is  called  life,  and  the  other 
already  weighed  down  under  a  premature 
knowledge  of  sin. 

"  Everything  must  be  fair  to  you,"  Mar- 
guerite. 

"Why  so?1' 

"  Because  you  see  everything  through  the 
medium  of  your  own  mind/' 

She  paused.  "  Then  everything  is  fair  to 
you  ?  " 

"No,  that  is  different." 

"  Tell  me  why.  Do  you  not  see  things 
through  the  medium  of  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.     But—" 

"  Then  they  must  be  fair  to  you,  like- 
wise." 

"lam  afraid  not;  their  beauty  is  more 
in  the  heart  which  looks  at  them,  than  in 
themselves." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  know  better 
than  I  do,  of  course ;  but  still  I  think  the 
sky  must  be  as  blue,  and  the  air  as  fresh,  to 
you  as  to  me." 

"Everything  seems,,  fair  and  fresh  this 
morning,  Marguerite,"  he  replied  softly. 

"  Does  it?  I  am  so  glad,"  and  she  turned 
her  sweet  face  to  his,  with  an  expression 
whioii  made  Philip  withdraw  his  gaze,  and 
determined  to  make  her  no  more  pretty 
speeches. 

"  What  do  you  do  at  home?  "  she  asked 
next.  This  was  a  trying  question  ;  for  few 
of  Philip's  pursuits  had  been  such  as  he  cared 
to  disclose  to  Marguerite.  However,  she 
was  unsuspicious  as  a  child,  and  listened  with 
interest  to  all  he  chose  to  tell  her — of  din- 
ner parties  and  balls,  and  the  opera  and  the 
parks,  and  what  people  did  at  all  these  places. 

J'  And  what  is  London  like?"  she  in- 
quired, when  he  paused.  "Is  it  at  all  like 
Quimper  ?  I  have  been  there  twice  to  the 
fair,  and  that  is  a  very  large  town,  too." 

Philip  tried  to  describe  a  great  city.  She 
listened  with  wondering  eyes  to  his  accounts 
of  brilliant  shops,  and  streets,  and  carriages, 
and  thought,  on  the  whole,  that  it  must  be 
better  than  Kersaint.  However,  she  quick- 
ly retracted  this  opinion  on  hearing  that  the 
air  was  generally  too  foggy  to  allow  you  to 
see  the  blue  sky,  and  that  there  were  no  birds 
or  flowers,  very  few  trees,  and  those  black. 


"I  will  never  goto  London,  then,"  she 
cried,  "  or  at  least  not  to  stay  there.  Bre- 
tagne  is  better." 

Poor  child,  as  she  said  these  words,  seat- 
ed by  Philip's  side,  with  the  May  sun  on  her 
cheek,  and  the  delicious  feeling  of  youth  and 
freedom  at  her  heart,  how  little  did  she 
dream  where  and  how  her  future  life  was  to 
be  Dassed ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  How  long  have  we  been  here,  I  won- 
der?" said  Marguerite,  at  length.  Philip 
looked  at  his  watch,  and  replied  that  it  was 
two  hours  since  they  left  home. 

"  And  we  are  not  half  way  to  the  chapel 
yet,  and  have  part  of  another  forest  still  to 
cross !  "  cried  Marguerite,  jumping  lightly 
down.  "  You  always  make  me  forget  the 
time,  monsieur.  Come,  Bello." 

Philip  was  quickly  at  her  side,  and  once 
more  they  proceeded  on  their  walk.  Every 
object  on  the  way,  a  stream  glittering  over 
white  pebbles,  an  azure  butterfly  hovering 
upon  some  wood-anemone,  a  solitary  prim- 
rose at  the  foot  of  an  old  hawthorn — afford- 
ed perfect  pleasure  to  Marguerite ;  and 
Philip,  who  had  been  bored  to  death,  dozens 
of  times  by  affected  enthusiasm  on  such  sub- 
jects, delighted  in  listening  to  her  childish 
admiration  of  all  the  common  things'  of  na- 
ture. Marguerite  possessed  the  rare  gift  of 
language — not  book  language,  she  had  read 
too  little  for  that,  but  an  unusual  and  even 
poetic  turn  of  expression,  when  speaking  on 
ordinary  subjects,  which  prevented  anything 
she  said  from  sounding  common-place ;  and 
her  slightly  foreign  accent  and  sonorous 
voice  only  added  to  the  charm. 

Once  or  twice  this  morning,  Philip  had 
already  felt  that  they  both  would  be  in  dan- 
ger by  the  continuance  of  this  intimate  com- 
panionship. His  own  heart  whispered  that 
he  could  not  long  remain  unmoved  at  the 
gaze  of  her  clear  eyes,  and  the  pressure 
of  her  small  hand  ;  while  for  Marguerite,  her 
excessive  youth  and  innocence  made  it  only 
too  likely  that  her  first  and  natural  love  might 
be  awakened  for  him.  Philip  was  strictly  a 
man  of  honor,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "  This 
walk  shall  be  the  last.'1  But  he  could  not 
now  restrain  the  happiness  of  his  companion, 
or  assume  a  distant  manner  towards  her, 
while  he  remained  a  guest  in  her  father's 
house ;  he  could  only  resolve  for  the  future, 
and  be  content  with  the  present;  and  he 
was — perfectly  content. 

They  had  walked  for  nearly  a  mile,  when 
the  ground  began  to  rise,  and  solitary  groups 
of  trees  stood  out  here  and  there,  as  senti- 
nels of  the  forest  which  they  were  now  about 
to  enter.  Bello  bounded  off  with  a  low 


68 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


bark  after  some  wild  animal,  whose  track  he 
had  suddenly  discovered,  ard  was  soon  lost 
among  the  deepening  shadows  ;  while  Mar- 
guerite conducted  her  companion  to  a  small 
bye-path,  along  which,  and  through  the  den- 
sest part  of  the  forest,  lay  a  near  way  to  the 
ruins. 

"There  are  no  gamekeepers  to  interfere 
•with  Hello's  amusements?"  remarked  Philip. 

"  Gamekeepers?  "  echoed  Marguerite. 

"  Yes;  garde  chasses,  as  you  call  them." 

"Oh!  I  believe  there  are  some;  but  the 
forests  are  so  large  we  never  meet  them,  and 
besides  every  one  knows  my  father,  and 
would  not  hurt  his  dog.  But  do  look 
round,"  she  cried,  "  and  tell  me  if  there 
are  forests  like  these  in  England.'" 

The  mass  of  foliage  around  them  was  in- 
deed singularly  beautiful  in  its  variety  and 
early  summer  freshness.  Ash  predominated 
among  the  larger  trees,  but  there  was  also  a 
thick  undergrowth  of  cherry,  aspen,  buck- 
thorn, and  wild  apple,  the  latter  now  rich  in 
scent  and  blossom.  They  walked  on  noise- 
lessly upon  the  thick,  long  moss,  enjoying 
the  peculiar  sweetness  of  the  forest  air,  and 
the  sounds  of  existence  with  which  they  were 
surrounded  ;  the  cooing  of  the  wood  dove, 
the  measured  cry  of  the  lapwing,  the  happy 
song  of  the  thrush,  and  the  confused  hum 
•from  thousands  of  unseen  insects.  For, 
again,  in  this  solitude,  so  rarely  trodden  by 
human  foot,  might  be  heard,  even  more  au- 
dit)!} than  upon  the  heath,  the  beating  of 
that  immense  pulse  of  life  which  eternally 
proceeds  from  and  returns  to  God,  unknown, 
uncared  for,  save  by  him. 

Aftei  a  time,  Marguerite  pointed  to  what 
Seemed  more  a  deer-track  than  a  path,  upon 
the  left  hand,  and  saying  that  was  their  near- 
est way,  she  led  Philip  still  further  into  the 
recesses  of  the  forest.  So  dense,  however, 
w.is  the  chaos  of  vegetation,  that  their  pro- 
gress was  frequently  impeded,  and  at  every 
Mep  the  scene  grew  more  wildly  grand. 
Here  and  there  some  huge  oak,  overthrown 
hall'  a  century  before  by  age  or  storm,  lay, 
still  supported  in  its  ponderous  decay  by  the 
Mems  of  the  sin-rounding  trees;  while  bright 
young  creepers,  on  which  the  midday  sun 
now  ^listened,  interlaced  its  trunk  in  a  thous- 
and graceful  festoons,  that  formed  airy 
bridges  lor  the  birds  and  squirrels;  and  in 
*iome  placet  the  earth  itself  appeared  to  have 
been  cotmilsively  rent  asunder  at  some  Ibr- 
n, er  period,  and  was  travcr,-eil  by  numerous 
raxines,  whose  figures  were  now  partially 
overhung  with  briars  and  huge  projecting 
rocks. 

Suddenly  an  opening  amidst  the  bushes 
•  •red,  almost  at  their  Icet,  and  at  some 
distance  beneath  them,  a  large  sheet  of  water, 
Completely  studded  over  with  water-lilies. 
The  wood-pigeons  were  skimming  :i<  i 
tin-  kingfisher  sparkling  like  a  gem  amidst 
the  ll  ig-nishe>  on  ils  banks,  while  one  .solita- 
ry In  ron  sat  patiently  watching  lor  prey 


among  the    lightning-scathed   boughs   of  a 
distant  willow. 

"  This  I  call  my  lake  !  "  cried  Marguerite, 
pointing  to  the  dark  blue  water.  "  I  diseov- 
ed  it  first  when  I  was  quite  a  child ;  and  like 
it  better  than  all  the  others  in  the  forest. 
There  are  not  water-lilies  anywhere  but 
here ;  and  when  it  is  very  hot  weather,  I 
come  and  sit  for  hours  by  that  large  mossy 
rock — " 

"  Surely  you  do  not  come  alone  to  this 
wild  spot?"  interrupted  Philip. 

"  Why  not?  it  is  too  far  for  my  father  to 
venture  ;  and  when  Manou  does  take  a  walk, 
which  is  very  seldom,  except  to  church,  she 
prefers  going  into  town,  and  does  not  care 
for  iv.y  walks.  She  says  there  are  so  many 
snakes  in  the  forest,  and  especially  by  the 
lake — fancy  being  afraid  of  the  beautiful  blue 
and  gold  water-snakes  !  " 

"  And  do  you  never  fear  to  meet  any  one 
in  your  wanderings  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  glad:  par  example,  if  I 
meet  Guille  and  Bon  Affut,  the  wood-cutters. 
They  lay  down  their  axes,  and  always  have 
a  chat  with  the  •  little  queen,'  as  they  call 
me.  And  if  I  meet  robbers,  why  I  have 
nothing  to  lose  ;  and  you,  old  Bello,  to  pro- 
tect me,"  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
the  hound,  wiio  had  rejoined  them.  Philip 
looked  in  wonder  at  this  fair  young  girl, 
with  her  noble  bearing,  and  innate  grace  of 
soul,  who  wandered  alone  through  these  ior- 
ests  without  an  idea  of  danger,  and  thought 
it  a  great  pleasure  to  chat  with  Guille  and 
Bon  AfTYit — leading  a  life  of  companionless, 
unchecked  freedom,  and  yet  with  a  refine- 
ment in  her  face  and  manner  a-  duchess 
might  have  envied.  He  was  right  when  he 
said  Marguerite  would  be  a  new  study  for 
him. 

"We  must  not  linger,"  she  exclaimed; 
"  the  sun  already  darts  across  the  silver 
beech;  it  must  be  three  o'clock."  Quitting 
the  side  of  the  lake,  they  once  more  began 
to  ascend;  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk- 
ing brought  them,  into  a  beaten  path  which 
led  to  the  ruins.  When  they  were  within  a 
few  yards  from  what  appeared  to  be  a  sud- 
den opening  among  the  trees,  Marguerite, 
cried,  "  shut  your  eyes,  monsieur,  and  give 
me  your  hand." 

Philip,  as  mav  b»  supposed,  willin-jlv  obey- 
ed ;  and  she  led  him  on  (her  face  lighting  up 
with  the  expectation  of  his  surprise)  into  the. 
ruined  chapel,  which  the  trees  had  hitherto 
entirely  screened  from  their  sight.  Then 
placing  him  by  the  window  that  she  consider- 
ed the  best  point  nf  view,  quilted  his  hand 
abruptly,  and  told  him  to  look  around. 

"  You  arc  indeed  a  fairy  !  "  was  Philip's 
first  exclamation.  "  A  moment  a '40  we  were 
in  the  gloomy  depths  of  tin-  forest,  and  now  " 
He  looked  aromi'l  before  finishing  the. 
sentence,  and  then  acknowledged  that  a  fairer 
sreitc  h.  (I  seldom  been  spiv.nl  before  him. 
The  little  chapel,  which  stood  consiilo  ably 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


elevated  in  the  very  centre  of  the  forest,  al- 
though entirely  in  ruins,  still  retained  some 
traces  of  its  former  beauty  in  a  few  delicate 
columns  and  pointed  arches,  and  one  exqui- 
sitely-carved rose  window.  The  accumulation 
of  soil  within  the  walls  amounted  to  eighteen 
or  twenty  feet,  and  in  one  part  enabled  a 
good  climber  to  reach  the  highest  fragment 
of  the  ruin ;  and  Marguerite  had  placed 
Philip  close  beside  the  eastern  window,  which 
commanded  an  extensive  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country.  At  their  feet  lay,  first, 
the  forest  itself,  its  different  hues  of  foliage 
blending  softly  in  the  slanting  sun  ;  beyond 
that,  wide  tracts  of  purple  lowlands,  dotted 
over  with  an  occasional  church  tower,  or  the 
remains  of  some  old  feudal  castle  ;  while,  as 
a  background  to  the  whole,  rose  the  sea, 
rivalling  and  exceeding  in  its  intense  blue  the 
cloudless  sky  above  them. 

As  Philip  still  gazed  upon  the  prospect 
without  speaking,  an  immense  sea-eagle 
floated  slowly  past,  ignorant  of  the  presence 
of  man  so  near  his  habitation,  and  adding  a 
strange  sense  of  wildness  to  the  whole  scene. 
After  hovering  a  few  seconds,  so  close  they 
might  almost  hear  the  movements  of  his 
graceful  black  wings,  he  suddenly  made  a 
swoop  upon  the  forest  beneath  them,  and  re- 
appeared, holding  his  prey  in  his  talons. 
Marguerite  pointed  out  his  nest  upon  the 
summit  of  a  high  oak,  whither  he  presently 
flew  with  his  prize,  and  added,  •'  I  know  him, 
and  his  mate  well,  and  often  sit  here  and 
watch  them.  The  young  will  be  fledged  next 
month.  But  we  must  now  go  to  the  very 
top  of  the  ruin,  and  you  will  see  Quimper 
Cathedral,  if  the  distance  is  quite  clear.  I 
hope  you  are  a  good  climber.11 

She  flew  with  the  lightness  of  a  young  roe 
up  the  loose  stones  and  broken  parapets,  and 
Philip  was  quickly  beside  her.  The  kind  of 
platform  upon  which  they  stood  was  only  a 
few  yards  square,  and  on  one  side  there  still 
remained  a  low  crumbling  wall,  three  or  four 
feet  high ;  on  the  others  it  was  completely 
unprotected  :  and  it  required  a  clear  head  to 
look  down  upon  the  deep  gulf  of  rocks  and 
foliage  beneath. 

"  You  can  just  see  the  cathedral,"  said 
Marguerite,  "  like  a  silver  dot  in  the  dis- 
tance. But  you  are  looking  at  me  again ; 
you  must  follow  the  direction  of  my  finger:  " 
and  she  made  him  bend  his  head  to  the  level 
of  her  hand.  Philip  was  almost  as  slow  in 
discovering  Quimper  Cathedral  as  he  had 
been  in  learning  bouquet  making ;  however, 
he  succeeded  at  length,  and  he  then  praised 
the  whole  fair  landscape  in  terms  that  de- 
lighted Marguerite. 

"It  is  so  pleasant  here,11  she  cried;  "] 
wish  we  could  sit  down  for  a  time  and  rest, 
but  I  am  afraid  the  ground  is  not  dry  enough. 

"  Most  assuredly  it  is  not,11  returned  Phil- 
ip:  *'  but  what  should  prevent  you,  however, 
from  resting  upon  the  wall?  " 

"  Well11— Marguerite  hesitated— "  I  think 


t  is  rather  dangerous.     Father  tells  me  nev- 
er to  lean  over  this  parapet." 
"But  if  I  hold  you?" 
"  It  would  tire  you  too  much." 
"  Try  at  all  events." 

Philip  lifted  her  on  the  wall,  which,  though 
decayed,  was  still  perfectly  safe  and  firm, 
and  supported  her  slight  waist  with  his  arm  ; 
while  Marguerite,  her  bonnet  discarded,  and 
:he  fresh  breese  playing  in  her  hair,  seemed 
Irinking  in  the  beauty  around  her  with  as 
much  pleasure  as  though  she  saw  it  all  for 
the  first  time,  and  only  fearing  occasionally 
that  she  was  tiring  Monsieur  Earnscliffe. 

After  Monsieur  EarnsclinVs  wise  resolu- 
tions of  an  hour  ago,  this  near  neighborhood 
was  certainly  a  somewhat  inconsistent  stroke 
of  policy  !  Marguerite — never  having  learnt 
propriety — had  no  more  idea  of  indecorum 
when  Philip's  arm  supported  her,  than  has  a 
London  young  lady  while  waltzing  at  a  hot 
hall  with  eighteen  consecutive  strangers  ;  she 
liked  to  enjoy  the  view, — she  wished  to  rest, 
— it  did  not  tire  her  companion  to  hold  her, 
and  that  was  all.  But  with  Philip  it  was 
different.  The  soft  touch  of  Marguerite's 
long  curls,  as  they  floated  across  his  hand, 
her  warm  breath  upon  his  cheek,  her  eyes 
turning  every  moment  to  his  with  their  child- 
like caressing  expression — all  made,  his 
heart  beat,  and  brought  to  him  a  bitterer 
sense  of  the  never-ending  tie  which  bound 
him  to  Clara  than  he  had  hitherto  experienc- 
ed. With  all  his  knowledge  of  the  woi'ld,  a 
few  hours  in  poor  little  Marguerite's  society 
had  already  taught  him  more  of  the  great  se- 
cret of  our  existence  than  he  had  ever  yet 
learnt. 

"  Would  you  not  like  my  life  better  than 
London  ?  "  she  asked,  after  both  had  been 
for  some  minutes  silent.  "  Confess  .that  you 
would." 

"  Your  life,  Marguerite?  I  should  in- 
deed." 

"  Then  why  not  choose  it?  " 

"  We  cannot  always  choose  what  we  pre- 
fer. Do  you  not  wish  for  anything  beyond 
that  which  you  now  possess  ?  " 

She  considered  a  moment.  "  Nothing, 
but  for  father  to  be  better.11 

"  You  are  perfectly  happy  then?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  have  everything  I  could 
wish  for  in  the  world — I  am  well — I  am 
free." 

'*  And  what  would  be  your  idea  of  mis- 
ery?" 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  I  have  never  considered. 
I  think,  for  me,  perhaps,  the  greatest  un- 
happiness  would  be,  to  be  separated  from 
my  father,  and  confined  in  some  close  house 
in  a  town — in  London,  for  example. 

*•  My  home  !  "  remarked  Philip. 

"  Well,  you  acknowledged  yourself,  that 
you  liked  our  forest  better." 

"  For  a  time,  yes.  But  you,  Marguerite, 
will  not  be  a  child  forever.  Some  day  you 
must  learn  to  be  a  grown-up  woman,  and 


70 


PHILIP  EAPvNSCLIFFE. 


obey  some  one  not  your  father,  and  give  up 
wandering  with  Bon  AiFut,  and  sitting  by  the 
water-lilies." 

Marguerite  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this 
programme  of  futurity.  "And  why  must  I 
do  all  this?  "  she  asked. 

'*  Is  there  not  a  time  when  the  existence 
of  every  ylning  girl  changes,  and  she  be- 
comes dependent  upon  the  will  of  another — 
•when," — her  full  gaze  troubled  him — 
"  when  she  marries?  " 

Marguerite  went  into  a  merry  laugh. 
"  Marry — I  marry!  Oh!  that  is  too  good. 
Why,  I  never  saw  any  gentleman  yet,  but 
father !  Am  I  to  marry  Bon  Affut,  or  the 
Black  Eagle,  my  only  friends  ? — unfortu- 
nately, both  have  mates  already."  (Poor 
Philip,  how  those  unconscious  words  stung 
him.)  "  No,  Kersaint  is  not  a  place  for 
weddings.  I  have  only  seen  two — and  those 
were  among  the  fisher  people — in  my  whole 
life !  "  and  she  laughed  on  at  the  ludicrous 
idea  of  any  one  being  married  from  Ker- 
saint. Young  ladies  in  general  blush  when 
they  speak  of  marriage ;  but  Marguerite, 
being  uninformed  on  this  point,  seemed  to 
think  the  subject  very  amusing. 

**  And  you  have  never  any  visitors  ?  "  went 
on  Philip. 

"  Never,  except  the  cure.  My  father  has 
invited  a  cousin  of  ours  once  or  twice  in  the 
summer,  but  he  has  not  come  yet." 

Philip  immediately  disliked  this  unknown 
relation;  and  remarked,  "Ah!  it  is  the 
cousin,  I  see,  who  will  rob  Kersaint  of  its 
little  queen. 

"  The  cousin  ?  why  he  is  older  than  father, 
and  has  had  two  wives  already." 

"  Oh,  but  you  may  have  chance  visitors, 
you  know — a  young  artist,  or  a  traveller, 
for  example,  suddenly  benighted,  like  my- 
§elf,  and  seeking  shelter  at  Kersaint.  lie 
might  stay  on  and  on.  and  in  time  you  would 
not  dislike  him,  and  of  course  from  the  first 
he  would  admire  you — and  then " 

Was  the  sun  too  bright,  that  Marguerite  ab- 
ruptly raised  her  hand  to  her  eyes,  and 
shaded  her  cheek?  It  could  not  be  that, 
for  she  turned  her  face  full  towards  the  west, 
and  away  from  Philip;  and  he  felt  that  she 
was  blushing.  It  was  the  first,  blush  of  wo- 
manly  feeling  that  had  ever  dyed  her  cheek 
— andibr  him  !  In  alter  years  they  neither  of 
them  lorgot  that  moment. 

"  I  think  we  should  go  home,"  said  Mar- 
guerite, timidly,  at  last.  "  It  is  time  now." 

He  lingered,  still  supporting  her,  and  with 
an  unusual  emotion  in  Ins  dark  eye,  as  though 
a  struggle  wen-  passing  within.  Then  he 
replied,  "  Yes,  it  is  time/'  and  lifted  hei- 
p-iii  l\  to  the  ground,  without  looking  at  her 

win, 

They    took    a    different    homeward    route 
through  the  forest;    it  was  even  mure  beauti- 
ful   than    the    other;     but     Marguerite    spoke 
m  of  the  birds  ami  flowers    th.m  wh«-n 
the;    came,     tilic    walked   by    Philip's   side, 


and  he  was  very  silent.  But  around  Tier  the 
whole  air  was  golden.  The  waving  branches 
of  the  trees  were  kindly  arms  held  out  to  her 
as  she  passed ;  the  very  wind,  as  it  swept 
freshly  by,  had  a  kiss  for  her  check,  and  the 
turf  rose  lovingly  under  her  feet.  Could  it 
be  the  same  lonely  path  she  had  so  often 
trod  before  ? 

'When  she  reached  home,  her  father  said 
she  looked  flushed,  and  must  be  tired  ;  and, 
glad  of  an  excuse,  she  ran  up  quickly  into 
her  own  room  ;  while  Philip  remained  con- 
versing with  Mr.  St.  John  upon  the  beauties 
of  the  walk,  and  the  wild  grandeur  of  Bre- 
ton scenery  in  general. 

By  her  open  window,  with  tearful  eyes, 
Marguerite  raised  her  face  to  the  blue  sky, 
and  thanked  God  for  the  new-born  happiness 
within  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

DURING  the  remainder  of  that  day,  Mar- 
guerite continued  somewhat  silent.  She  re- 
lated to  her  father  at  dinner  what  a  delightful 
walk  they  had  taken,  but  she  was  not  elo- 
quent ;  it  was  greater  pleasure  to  her  to  be 
still  and  think.  Philip,  however,  conversed 
much  with  Mr.  St.  John,  who  was  every 
hour  better  pleased  with  his  guest.  Between 
these  two  men — dissimilar  though  they  might 
have  appeared  in  many  things — there  was  yet 
in  reality  sufficient  resemblance  to  give  them 
a  harmony  of  ideas  and  feelings.  Both  had, 
in  a  certain  measure,  wearied  of  the  world ; 
both  had  been  disappointed  in  domestic  life; 
the  one  through  death,  the  other  through  a 
miserable  marriage ;  and  in  both  was  the 
same  natural  perception  of  the  beautiful,  and 
the  power  of  appreciating  keenly  all  true 
excellence  in  art  or  literature.  Marguerite 
— without  fully  understanding  the  whole  of 
their  conversation — listened  with  delight. 
Her  father's  voice  (the  only  one  except  her 
nurse's  which  had  murmured  love  over  her 
cradle)  had  been  the  gladness  of  her  sixteen 
years  of  life,  and  the  stranger's — low  and 
dangerously  musical — was  already  sweeter 
to  her  ear  than  she  dreamed  of. 

"  Have  you  remarked  much  of  the  singu- 
larly deep  religions  feelings  among  the  l>reton 
peasants;  or,  as  some  would  call  it,  of 
their  superstition  ?''  asked  Mr.  St.  John,  in 
the  course  of  conversation. 

"  I  have,  observed  that,  the  churches  are 
generally  crowded/1  answered  Philip;  and 
when  I  have  entered  them  during  service, 
the  people  appeared  to  me  earnest  ii;  their 
devotions." 

"Yes;    but    their    devotion    does   not    end 
with  the   service.       lii  every  action  of  a   lire- 
ton's  life,  from  his  birth  to  his  grave, 
holds  a  prominent  part. 


A   wild   religion  it 


.  PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


71 


is,  mixing  up  the  dogmas  of  the  Catholic 
church  with  the  weird  traditions  of  their 
Celtic  forefathers,  in  a  manner  that  is  cer- 
tainly more  poetic  than  orthodox.  They 
will  frequently,  for  instance,  after  attending 
mass  on  a  saint's  day,  conclude  the  evening 
by  gathering  round  the  mystic  ring  of  some 
prophetess  or  soothsayer,  and  listening  with 
the  greatest  reverence  to  her  visions  of  futu- 
rity— the  maidens  seeking  for  knowledge  of 
their  married  life,  the  wives  for  the  success 
and  safe  return  of  their  sailor  husbands. 
The  priests,  of  course,  discourage  these 
practices ;  but  they  have  too  much  tact — 
and,  indeed,  some  of  them  too  much  sympa- 
thy with  the  people — to  run  violently  against 
old-established  prejudice." 

"  Father,"  broke  in  Marguerite,  gravely, 
"  many  of  old  Anaik's  prophecies  come 
true." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  smiling,  "  if 
you  acknowledge  -to  all  your  superstitions, 
Marguerite,  you  will  make  Mr.  Earnscliffe 
think  you  a  complete  little  Bas  Bretonne. 
You  take  Manon's  tales  on  too  easy  cre- 
dence." 

"  What  I  could  tell,  is  no  tale  of  Man- 
on's," she  replied. 

'•  May  we  not  hear  it  ?  "  asked  Philip.  "  I 
should  like  to  become  acquainted  with  some 
specimens  of  Anaik's  powers."' 

"  Well,"  said  Marguerite,  looking  away 
from  him  as  she  spoke,  "  one  evening,  late 
in  autumn,  Manon  and  1  were  hurrying  home 
from  town.  There  had  been  violent  storms 
for  several  days,  and  we  did  not  care  to  lin- 
ger on.  the  road;  but,  as  we  passed  through 
Rosnareu — a  little  hamlet  on  the  coast — a 
stream  of  light  from  one  of  the  cabanes  made 
Manon  peep  through  the  window,  and  she 
called  me  to  look  at  a  filerie — " 

"  Which — being  translated?  "  interrupted 
Philip. 

**  Is  a  party  of  women  who  meet  to- 
gether to  work  and  talk.  Well,  about  a 
dozen  of  fisher  wives  were  seated  round  a 
reed  fire,  spinning  and  chatting  merrily,  and 
Jean  Biiizec's  young  wife  was  among  them 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms.  Several  other 
little  children  were  sleeping  before  the  fire 
at  their  mother's  feet,  and  they  formed  such 
a  pretty  group  in  the  flickering  blaze,  that  I 
liked  to  stop  and  look  at  them  in  spite  of  the 
cold. 

"  Suddenly  the  door  opened  on  the  other 
side  of  the  cabane,  and  a  gaunt,  tall  figure 
entered.  Manon  knew  her,  and  crossed 
herself;  it  was  Anaik  the  prophetess.  She 
was  dressed  in  rags — a  sort  of  wallet  of  red 
serge  upon  her  shoulders,  and  her  long  grey 
hair  falling  about  her  face.  The  women  all 
rose  and  gave  place  to  her  on  her  entrance ; 
but  without  noticing  them  she  walked  up  to 
the  fire  and  warmed  her  long  bony  hands 
over  the  flame ;  then  turning  round  to  poor 
Louison,  who  was  bending  over  her  child,  she 
screamed  to  her  in  a  voice  that  made  uie 


trembU?,  and  with  the  most  fearful  look  of 
pleasure  upon  her  face — 

"  '  Louison,  wife  of  Bruzt/J,  listen  to  me ! 
Once,  last  winter,  when  the  snow  was  falling 
fast,  and  the  very  birds  of  the  air  had  found 
shelter,  old  Anaik  was  out  in  the  cold,  blight- 
ing blast,  without  a  roof  to  cover  her. 
Ana'ik  asked  money  or  bread  of  Jean  Bruzec, 
and  he  called  her  agroac'h — a  drunken  witch 
— -and  said  she  had  bewitched  his  mother 
with  her  spells.  And  Ana'ik  swore  that  Jean 
should  never  see  another  winter  himself. 
Her  words  have  come  true !  The  last  leaves 
of  autumn  still  hang  upon  the  trees;  but 
among  Carnac  rocks  lies  Jean  Bruzec,  cold, 
and  stark,  and  dead,  and  his  child  is  fath- 
erless ! ' 

"  One  shriek  burst  from  poor  Louison, 
and  she  fell  senseless  with  her  babe  upon 
the  ground,  while  Anaik,  laughing  loud,  left 
the  cabane.  We  were  so  horrified  that  we 
ran  on  home ;  but  next  morning  Bruno 
brought  us  word  from  the  village,  that  Bru- 
zec's  companions  had  returned  without  him  ; 
he  fell  overboard  in  a  gale,  two  nights  be- 
fore, and  was  never  seen  again." 

"And  a  coincidence  like  this,  my  child,  " 
said  Mr.  St.  John,  "  strengthens  old  Anaik's 
reputation  fourfold  ;  and  the  dozens  of  times 
that  she  has  prophesied  falsely  are  forgotten. 
You  believe  even  your  own  songs,  little 
one " 

"  Do  you  sing  these  Bretons  tales  as  well 
as  narrate  them  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

"  I  sing  sometimes,"  answered  Marguer- 
ite ;  "  but  I  have  never  learnt,  and  I  hear  no 
music  except  at  church." 

"  Yes,  that  is  poor  Marguerite's  only 
music  lesson,"  said  her  father,  "  and,  as  na- 
ture has  really  given  her  a  somewhat  re- 
markable voice  and  ear,  I  am  glad  for  her 
to  have  even  this  opportunity  for  improving 
herself.  The  service  is  extremely  well  per- 
formed at  N ,  and  the  organ  far  superior 

to  what  you  generally  meet  with  in  a  remote 
country  town." 

*'  To-morrow  is  Sunday,"  said  Marguerite 
stroking  Bello's  head,  and  looking  away  from 
the  table. 

"  But  you  need  not  go  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  !  not  unless  " — she  glanced  at  Philip. 

"  I  should  really  like  to  hear  the  service," 
he  said.  "  And  if  you  will  allow  me  to  ac- 
company you — " 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Mr.  St.  John, 
quietly.  "  Marguerite  is  only  too  happy  to 
exhibit  all  our  winders  ;  but  I  fear  they  can- 
not give  so  much  pleasure  to  any  one  else  as 
herself.  And  now,  as  we  have  finished  din- 
ner, let  us  turn  round  to  the  window  and 
look  out  awhile.  I  could  bear  the  open  air 
this  soft  evening.  And  do  you,  Marguerite, 
sing  some  of  your  Breton  romances  to  Mr. 
Earnscliffe." 

They  were  dining  in  the  large  salle,  one 
of  whose  bay  windows  faced  the  west,  and 
overlooked  a  kind  of  inland  gulf,  formed  on 


72 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


-f 


this  side  by  the  sf  a.  The  setting  snn  threw 
its  slanting  beams  upon  Mr.  St.  John's  pale 
face,  when  they  had  wheeled  him,  wrapped 
up  in  a  cloak,  to  the  open  window,  giving 
him,  for  the  time,  almost  the  hue  of  health  ; 
Philip,  somewhat  apart,  stood  leaning  against 
one  of  the  xleep  stone  embrasures ;  and 
Marguerite  very  flushed  at  having  to  sing 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  before  a  stranger, 
was  seated  on  a  low,  old-fashioned  ottoman, 
in  the  centre  of  the  group,  tuning  her  guitar, 
and  not  daring  to  look  up  at  Earnseliife. 
She  played  almost  entirely  from  ear,  for  her 
father  understood  only  enough  of  music  to 
teach  her  the  names  of  the  notes,  and  ex- 
cepting a  few  Scotch  airs,  which  she  had 
picked  up  from  him,  her  songs  were  mostly 
.wild  Breton  romances.  She  hesitated  a 
little  when  all  the  strings  were  tuned,  and 
turning  to  her  father,  asked  what  she  should 
sing  to  Mr.  Earnseliffe. 

"What  you  like,  darling.  What  was  that 
J  heard  you  singing  to  Manon  yesterday 
morning  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Oli,  that  was  only  part  of  a  dirge  that  I 
heard  the  peasants  chanting  for  poor  Lou- 
"bette,  but  it  is  very  melancholy.'" 

"  1  should  like  to  hear  it,""  said  Philip, 
Ipeaking  for  the  first  time  ;  "I  know  none  of 
toese  Breton  songs." 

Without  reply  Marguerite  struck  a  few 
wild  chords,  and  then,  gradually  subsiding 
into  a  low  murmuring  cadence  for  accompani- 
ment, she  began.  Mr.  St.  John  said  rightly 
that  nature  had  gifted  her  with  no  common 
voice.  It  was  full,  deep,  and  remarkably 
powerful,  and  had  all  that  exquisite  fresh- 
ness which  belongs  only  to  the  very  young. 
She  was  utterly  untaught ;  but  her  ear  and 
taste  were  alike  so  faultless,  that  Philip, 
fastidious  though  he  was  in  music,  soon  lis- 
tened to  Marguerite's  singing  with  undis- 
guised pleasure.  He  had  rather  dreaded 
hearing  her,  thinking  it  likely  her  father's 
Opinion  was  partial,  and  that  a  very  mediocre 
performance  would  take  somewhat  from  the 
charm  of  her  beautiful  face;  but  he  was  now 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  of  all  Marguer- 
ite's gilts,  her  voice  was  infinitely  the  great- 
est. 

A-  >hc  sang  she  lost  the  slight  timidity 
which  had  marie  the  first  few  notes  tremble, 
and  fin-getting  everything  but  her  theim — 
half  <>f  which  was  an  improvisation  of  her 
own — her  cheeks  glowed,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  The  words,  which  Marguerite 
translated  into  I-Ycnch,  although  wild,  and 
with  scarcely  any  rhyme,  had  yet  no  lack  of 
real  feeling,  and  with  the  plaintive  monotony 
of  the  chant,  possessed  a  singular  charm. 
The  young  girl  for  whom  it  was  sung  had 
been  drowned  in  waiting  lor  her  lover  among 
the  rocks  ;  and  the  distant  beating  of  the 
ue a.  Mending  with  Marguerite's  voice,  gave 
A  reality  to  the  little  romance  which  was 
simply  told  in  the  funeral  dirge. 
•  When  she  finished,  somewhat  abruptly, 


she  placed  the  guitar  beside  her,  and  turned 
round  to  her  father.  She  was  afraid  to  read 
in  Philip's  face  what  he  thought  of  her  mu- 
sic; for  she  was  as  unconscious  of  her  ex- 
traordinary voice  as  of  her  own  beauty,  and 
felt  rather  ashamed  at  performing  before 
him — "  he,  who  lived  in  London,  and  must 
be  such  a  good  judge  !  " 

"  Will  you  sing  again?  "  said  Philip,  in  a 
low  voice,  after  a  minute  or  two's  pause. 
He  was  not  in  a  mood  to  flatter,  but.  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  showed  what  he  felt,  and 
the  invalid  was  delighted. 

"There!  Marguerite,  our  guest  wishes 
to  hear  you  again,"  he  said.  "  Suppose  you 
try  something  in  your  own  language  now — • 
some  of  our  old  Scotch  ballads." 

With  one  look  towards  Philip  she  obeyed. 
This  time  she  chose  a  favorite  song  of  her 
father's — "  The  Land  o'  the  Leal,"  and  the 
deep  pathos  her  voice  gave  to  those  touching 
words  was  indescribable.  Mr.  St.  John's 
lips  quivered  as  she  sang ;  for  Marguerite's 
voice  was  like  her  mother's,  and  that  song 
always  reminded  him  of  the  great  sorrow  of 
his  life  ;  and  Philip  felt  he  would  rather  lis- 
ten to  her  ballads  thm  to  the  finest  opera  in 
the  world.  She  went  on  from  one  to  an- 
other, until  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sun  had 
disappeared  from  the  oak  carvings  round  the 
window,  and  the  freshening  breeze  warned 
Mr.  St.  John  that  it  was  already  late  to  be 
near  the  open  air.  Marguerite  sprang  up 
hastily,  and  then,  assisted  by  Philip,  she 
wheeled  her  father's  chair  towards  the  hearth, 
where  Manon  had  already  laid  the  logs  ready 
for  a  cheerful  blaze. 

"  But  you  have  not  read  to  me  to-day," 
said  Mr.  St.  John,  softly,  to  his  daughter. 
"  I  must  hear  you  for  half  an  hour,  darling, 
if  Mr.  EarnsclifTe  will  excuse  us." 

Marguerite  went  at  once  to  the  Ijbrary  in 
search  of  the  sacred  volume,  which  always 
furnished  their  evening  reading;  and  Philip, 
thinking  they  would  probably  wish  to  be 
be  alone,  said  he  would  enjoy  the  fresh  sea 
air,  and  stroll  out  into  the  garden  with  his 
cigar. 

The  sun  had  now  completely  set.  Only 
one  faint  streak  of  light  lingered  over  the 
horizon,  as  loath  to  quit  the  blue  sea  upon 
which  it  vested;  a  lew  stars  had  already  ris- 
en ;  and  the  wind,  which  during  the  day  had 
blown  freshly,  was  sunk  into  a  whisper. 
Nothing  but  the  gentle  plash  of  the  travel — • 
now  close  beneath  the  terrace  wall — broke 
the  .stillness;  everything  in  exlenrd  n  iture, 
seemed  calm  and  at  peace.  \\\i\  I'liilip's  h^art 
was  not  so  !  lie  walked  on  to  the  terrace, 
and  there  paced  up  and  down— his  arms 
folded  and  his  lips  compressed — and  uncon- 
scious of  the  whole  scene  around  him. 

Love,  alter   a   day's   acquaintance,  i 
erallv    a    somewhat,     doubtful     |celin,r;     but 
Philip's   w.i.s    ju-t  a  nature,  quick,  impuNi\e.f 
irrellective,    in    which    it    could    be    genuine. 
He  already  felt  for  Marguerite  St .  .John  more 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE 


73 


than  he  had  ever  felt  for  any  woman  before 
and  it  cost  him  a  bitter  pang  to  reflect  that 
in  his  position  as  a  married  man,  only  on< 
right  course  was  open  to  him — to  leave  hei 
at  once.  He  said  to  himself  that  there  was 
dishonor  in  remaining  one  more  day  unde 
her  father's  roof  in  his  assumed  character 
for  although  he  had  not  said  so  in  words,  hi 
had  certainly  given  Marguerite  to  understanc 
that  he  was  a  single  man,  and  her  own  warn 
blush,  that  morning  among  the  ruins  showed 
Philip  well  knew,  that  his  own  manner  hac 
already  gone  too  far. 

*'  Should  he  then  disclose  his  true  positior 
at  once  to  Mr.  St.  John,  or  leave  Ker- 
saint ?  " 

From  the  former  course  he  shrank  mor- 
bidly. He  had  resolved  on  quitting  Eng- 
land, to  forget  his  former  life  as  much  as 
possible ;  he  wished  neither  his  fame  as  an 
author,  nor  his  private  history  to  follow  him  ; 
and  had  chosen  Brittany  as  the  spot  on  earth 
where  he  would  be  least  likely  to  be  recog- 
nised. Merely  to  mention  to  Mr.  St.  John 
that  he  was  married  must  naturally  call  forth 
other  explanation,  which  would  lead  him 
back  to  all  his  recent  trials.  And,  besides 
this,  there  lurked  in  his  heart  a  feeling  that 
he  would  rather  quit  Marguerite  at  once 
than  stay  near  her  in  a  different  character 
to  that  under  which  she  now  knew  him. 

*'  Then  he  would  leave  Kersaint  directly. 
No,  that  would  be  too  sudden ;  one  more 
day  he  must  stay,  and  then  speak  of  going. 
And  in  the  meantime  he  would  avoid  being 
alone  with  Marguerite,  or  even  thinking  of 
her.  Yes,  he  had  resolved  rightly,  for  a 
short  time  longer  he  would  stay." 

Philip  had  an  excellent  heart,  and  a  sensi- 
tive regard  to  honor ;  but — arid  this  was  the 
mainspring  of  all  his  life's  errors — his  will 
was  weak,  his  resolutions  wavering.  He 
would  torment  himself  for  days  upon  some 
point  of  conscience,  which  to  another  man 
would  appear  trivial ;  yet  when  a  broad  path 
of  duty  lay  before  him  as  was  now  the  case, 
he  did  not  enter  upon  it  boldly  and  at  once. 
The  struggle  was  over  in  ten  minutes ;  but 
on  those  ten  minutes  depended  the  whole 
after-coloring  of  Marguerite's  life. 

The  night  deepened :  millions  of  worlds 
began  to  glisten,  like  tears  in  the  blue  eyes 
of  heaven,  over  the  deep  space  above,  and 
all  the  reproaching  holiness  of  nature  was 
around  him.  Philip  turned  hastily  towards 
the  manoir,  where  already  a  bright  fire  was 
glimmering  through  one  of  the  lower  win- 
dows, and  he  could  trace  the  outline  of  Mr. 
St.  John's  drooping  figure,  as  he  and  Mar- 
guerite read  together.  Poor  father,  igno- 
rant that  already  another  voice  than  his  was 
sweet  to  his  child's  heart ! 

And  once  again  Philip's  conscience  smote 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  they  went 
to  church  together ;  the  next,  some  other  lit- 
tle excursion  was  planned,  and  so  it  went  on 
each  day,  until  Philip  had  been  a  week  at 
Kersaint,  without  ever  speaking  of  renewing 
his  travels.  He  had  faithfully  guarded  over 
his  manner  with  Marguerite,  during  this 
time,  and  there  had  been  no  recurrence  of 
any  conversation  like  that  among  the  ruins. 
But,  although  he  spoke  to  her  on  indifferent 
subjects,  and  scarcely  ever  called  her  Mar- 
guerite, she  felt  that  his  eyes  sought  hers, 
that  his  voice  softened  when  he  spoke  to  her, 
and  her  whole  heart  was  full  of  joy. 

She  was  innocent  beyond  what  we  in  our 
ordinary  life  ever  meet  with — innocent  be- 
yond any  young  creature  just  leaving  the 
school-room  or  convent,  with  cast-down  eyes 
and  regulation  modesty.  True  innocence 
was  the  state  of  Eve  before  she  had  tasted 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  learnt  to  As- 
sume, and  such  was  Marguerite's.  The 
blush  on  her  cheek,  when  she  met  Philip's 
gaze,  was  as  natural  as  the  red  glow  on  a 
flower  which  is  kissed  by  the  sun ;  and  she 
could  neither  reason  it  away,  nor  make  it 
come  at  her  bidding.  A  new  feeling  was 
dawning  upon  her  existence,  and  she  felt 
within  her  an  unwonted  and  delicious  trou- 
ble, though  she  could  not  analyse  the  cause. 
She  knew  not  that  her  childhood  was  dying, 
and  the  stronger,  deeper,  woman's  life  awak- 
ening. She  had  never  read  a  novel,  had  nev- 
er spoken  to  any  one  of  love ;  and  had  she 
leard  that  Philip  was  married,  it  would  have 
^een  a  far  less  shock  to  her  than  he  imag- 
ned.  What  did  she  know  of  marriage,  or 
low  connect  it  with  herself?  i 

The  love  of  a  very  young  girl  is,  I  believe, 
a  subject  no  man  can  really  comprehend. 
Grrosser  from  their  very  cradles,  men's  whole 
ives  are  such  as  sully  their  ideas  of  love ; 
and  the  purest  feeling  that  was  ever  felt  by 
one  of  them,  is  as  clay  compared  to  the  pure 
silver  of  hers. 

With  her  father's  image  another  now  rose 
before  Marguerite  at  her  evening  prayers — 
another  to  be  remembered  in  her  petitions ; 
and  if  the  prayer  for  the  stranger  was  warm- 
er than  that  which  she  had  breathed  from  her 
nfancy,  she  knew  not  that  it  was  less  pure. 
She  liked  to  be  with  Philip,  to  lay  her  hand  • 
imidly  on  his,  to  sing  to  him,  to  listen  to  the 
oetry  he  repeated  to  her,  to  see   his  face 
row  each  day  less  gloomy  when  with  her, 
nd  to  hear  him   say   he  could   not  bear  to 
eave  them.     Nor  was  her  evident  pleasure' 
n  his  society  concealed.      Mr.  St.  John — 
hough  by  no   means   clear-sighted,  and  so 
nuch  in  his  study  that  he  rarely  saw  them  to- 
gether, except  at  meal-times — had  suspicions 
hat  Marguerite    and  the  visitor   liked  each- 
ther  well,  and  the  thought  pleased  him.     He 
vas  greatly  attracted  towards  Philip  himself  j 


rillLIP  EAKNTSCLIFFE. 


bis  whole  manner  and  tone  of  mind  were 
precisely  what  he  admired  most;  and,  with- 
out really  knowing  anything  about  his  histo- 
ry, he  thought  that  his  child's  happiness 
would  be  safe  in  his  keeping. 
I  Only  one  thing  more  was  wanting  to  com- 
plete his  predisposition  in  favor  of  his  visitor, 
and  this  shortly  occurred.  On  the  eighth 
morning  after  Philip's  arrival  at  Kersaint, 
they  were  all  seated  at  the  breakfast-table 
when  the  post  came  in.  Not  in  a  uniform 
and  with  a  double  knock,  as  may  be  supposed, 
but  in  the  sudden  apparition  at  the  window 
of  Bruno — an  uncouth-looking  and  only  half- 
witted personage,  who  professed  to  take  care 
of  the  garden  and  poultry,  and  was  sent  to 
N to  market,  when  Manon  was  too  bu- 
sy to  go  herself.  In  one  sense  he  performed 
this  office  well ;  that  is,  he  knew  the  value 
of  sous  and  centimes  as  well  as  the  sharpest 
market-women  on  the  "  place,"  and  bought 
provisions  as  cheaply  as  Manon  could  her- 
self. But  he  was  obtuse  to  the  last  degree, 
in  understanding  that  he  had  no  legal  right 
or  share  in  his  own  good  bargains,  and  al- 
ways appropriated  so  large  a  tithe  to  his  ca- 
pacious mouth  on  his  way  home,  that  Manon 
now  rarely  trusted  him  when  anything  had 
to  be  bought  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
consume.  Even  here,  once  or  twice,  her 
judgment  had  failed  her,  and  half  a  pack- 
age of  starch  and  a  quantity  of  raw  salt  fish 
had  severally  fallen  victims  to  Bruno's  indis- 
criminating  palate. 

On  the  morning  in  Question,  however,  he 
had  been  despatched  at  four  o'clock,  Manon's 

hour  for  rising,  to  call  at  N about  a  new 

kitchen  table  that  had  been  ordered,  and 
which  Manon  rightly  conjectured  would  be 
safe  from  his  appetite,  even  were  he  required 
to  bring  it  home  on  his  shoulders.  Having 
performed  his  commission  satisfactorily,  t.  e., 
by  calling  at  the  carpenter's,  and  ascertaining 
that  the  wood  was  not  yet  sawn,  which  should 
one  day  form  the  stage  for  Manon's  art,  Bru- 
no, his  great  hat  slouched  over  his  forehead, 
and  hi.s  .sheepskin  dangling  round  his  ungain- 
ly figure,  was  .shambling  along  through  the, 
homeward,  his  stolid  eyes  fixed  intent- 
ly before  him,  yet  in  reality,  observing  every 
one  lie  met,  when,  as  he  passed  the  post-of- 
fice, he  heard  his  own  name  shouted.  Stop- 
ping with  a  jerk,  he  ga/ed  on  all  sides  but 
that  from  when .e  the  sound  proceeded,  with 
his  mouth  wide  open,  and  a  look  of  the  most 
hope|e>s  imbecility  upon  his  face. 

"Bruno — dolt— idiot!  "  reiterated  the 
voice. 

Bruno  shook  his  head  slowly,  as  though 
the  p'-rson  spoken  to  could  not,  possibly  be. 
f.  and  then  pursued  his  road. 

44  Bruno  !  "  called  the,  voice.  He  did  not 
turn. 

"Monrienr      I'runo — Monsieur    Bruno!'' 

now  sounded  faintly.      A  grin  distorted  IJru- 

Je    mouth,  and    chuckling    to    himself 

at  his  new  title  of  dignity,  he  turned  and  be- 


held the  post-mistress,  her  head  outstretched 
through  the  small  window  of  the  bureau, 
which  also  formed  her  sitting-room,  and 
holding  something  in  bei  hand. 

44  A  newspaper  for  M.  St.  John,"  she  ex- 
plained as  she  approached.  44  Just  take  it 
with  you,  good  Bruno." 

Good  Bruno  was  aware  that  Kersaint  was 

distant  more  than  one  league  from  N , 

and  that,  by  taking  the  paper,  he  saved  the 
post-mistress  or  her  son  from  walking  that 
distance,  and  he  made  no  sign  of  receiving 
it. 

14  Bruno  is  no  postman,"  he  muttered  in 
his  most  stupid  manner.  44  Poor  Bruno!" 
pointing  to  his  forehead. 

44  But  that  does  not  signify,"  urged  the 
,lady.  44  Come,  take  it  at  once;  your  mas- 
ter will  wish  to  see  it," 

44  And  if  Bruno  won't  take  it?  " 

44  I  must  send  it,  you" — fool,  she  would 
have  added,  but  refrained  until  her  point  was 
gained. 

44  And  who  pays  you  ?  " 

4 'Pays  me?  why  government;  only  you 
don't  know  what  that  means,  and  little 
enough  too !  " 

44  And  who  pays  Bruno  ?  " 

4'  Oh !  that  is  it,  is  it?  "  returned  the  post- 
mistress. 4'  You  think  you  must  be  paid 
like  anybody  else ;"  and  with  a  great  show 
of  generosity,  she  produced  a  five-centimes 
piece.  44  There,  take  this,  and  be  off." 

But  Bruno  shook  his  head ;  and  riot  until 
he  had  stood  out  for  half  an  hour,  and 
finally  obtained  ten  centimes,  would  he  re- 
ceive the  paper.  Then  he  started  at  a  quick- 
er pace  than  usual,  his  face  beaming  with  the 
double  delight  of  having  to  tell  Manon  that 
her  table  was  not  yet  begun,  and  that  he  had 
realized  ten  centimes  for  himself.  After 
this  fashion  the  post  usually  came  in  at  Ker- 
saint. 

The  newspaper  was  sent  by  44  the  cousin," 
Mr.  St.  John's  only  remaining  correspondent 
in  England,  who  wrote  to  him  about  once  a 
year,  and  sent  a  paper  every  six  months. 
it  was  merely  intended  as  a  sign  that  he.  was 
living  and  well;  and  was  generally  a  month 
old  when  it  reached  Kersaint.  Marguerite, 
however,  always  hailed  its  arrival  as  a  kind 
of  event,  and  would  read  aloud  the  adver- 
tisements of  new  books  to  her  father,  and 
wish  she  had  got  them  all. 

"  -May  I  open  it,  father:1  "  she  a>ked,  when 
she  had  finished  her  colloquy  with  Bruno 
through  the  open  window,  and  he  had  relat- 
ed with  great  glee,  in  his  Ureton  p.itois,  how 
lie  had  outwitted  the  post-mislr 

"Certainly,  child/'  and  he  went  on  talk- 
ing to  Philip. 

Marguerite  knew  where  to  find  the  litera- 
ry advertisements,  and  turning  to  that  part, 
began  reading  them  over  to  lier.se If.  Sud- 
denly the  color  rushed  into  her  lace,  and  she 
exclaimed  aloud — 

"  Mr.  Karnsclitle  !  " 


PHILIP  EAKtfSCLIFFE. 


75 


"  What  have  you  found  Marguerite?" 
said  her  father. 

She  rose,  without  replying,  and  pointed  to 
the  part  which  had  called  forth  her  astonish- 
ment. It  was  the  announcement  of  "  A  new 
edition  of  Mr.  Philip  Earnscliffe's  last  suc- 
cessful work.1'  Mr.  St.  John  looked  a  little 
surprised,  and  read  the  notice  over  twice 
without  speaking,  then  he  turned  to  Philip — 

"  My  daughter  has  found  out  a  literary 
namesake  of  yours,  Mr.  Earnscliffe ;  the 
name  is  so  uncommon  as  to  nrnke  this  coin- 
cidence somewhat  remarkable/'  and  he  hand- 
ed him  the  paper. 

Philip  colored  as  his  eye  glanced  over  it. 
This  was  certainly  the  part  of  his  history  he 
cared  least  about  revealing ;  still,  he  would 
have  been  better  pleased  had  the  discovery 
not  taken  place.  Now  he  could  conceal  it 
no  longer. 

"  I  must  acknowledge,"  he  said,  "  that 
Philip  Earnscliffe  the  author,  is  no  other 
than  myself." 

"Oh",  father!"  burst  from  Marguerite 
"  he  is  a  great  author,  after  all." 

*'  And  a  modest  one,"  added  Mr.  St. 
John.  "  Few  men  of  your  age,  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe, like  their  fame  to  pass  incognito,  even 
among  such  simple  people  as  ourselves." 

"  Well,"  replied  Philip,  "  the  fact  is,  I 
have  been  so  often  wearied  to  death,  when 
listening  to  other  writers  talking  about  their 
own  works,  that  I  resolved  to  adopt  the 
other  extreme,  and  never  speak  of  mine  at 
all" 

"  And  you  have  kept  well  to  your  resolu- 
tion. Still,  though  you  never  told  me  you 
were  an  author,  I  have  more  than  once  sus- 
pected that  your  talents  had  not  lain  idle 
all  your  life,  and  the  other  day  was  nearly 
questioning  you  on  the  subject.  You  seemed 
so  thoroughly  an  fait  of  all  literary  matters 
and  people,  that  I  could  not  but  think  you 
were  one  of  the  fraternity  yourself." 

During  the  time  her  father  spoke,  Mar- 
guerite read  and  re-read  the  advertisement, 
and  then  looked  long  at  Philip,  trying  to  con- 
nect her  kind,  simple  companion  with  the 
successful  Mr.  Earnscliffe.  She  felt  rather 
awed  at  seeing  a  living  author ;  and  thought 
•with  shame  how  he  had  listened  to  all  her 
childish  conversation,  and  of  the  immeasure- 
able  distance  there  must  henceforth  be  be- 
tween them  ;  she  so  ignorant  and  he  in  all  the 
dignity  of  acknowledged  authorship. 

"  What  are  the  books  about,  father?  "  she 
whispered,  at  length,  not  daring  to  address 
Philip. 

"  Why  do  you  not  ask  Mr.  Earnscliffe?  " 
he  replied,  aloud. 

She  turned  away  her  face. 

"  Marguerite  is  afraid  of  you  in  your 
newly-discovered  character,  I  believe." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Philip,  "or  I  shall 
indeed  regret  that  my  secret  is  known." 

Marguerite   glanced  at  his   face,  and  felt 


that  there  was  no  fresh  gulf  between  them ; 
and  all  her  confidence  returned. 

"  Wnat  are  they  about,  then?"  she  cried, 
returning  to  her  chair,  which  tho  drew  quite 
close  to  his  side.  "  Are  they  poetry  or 
stories  ?  Have  you  written  many  ?  And 
please  tell  me  their  names." 

And  Philip,  when  he  once  began  to  reply, 
was  cross-questioned  with  such  earnestness 
for  a  good  half-hour,  that  Mr.  St.  John,  al- 
though nearly  as  much  interested  as  Mar- 
guerite, at  length  told  her  that  she  would  tire 
Mr.  Earnscliffe. 

"Well,"  she  pleaded,  "only  one  thing 
more  then  ;  may  we  see  any  of  your  books  ?  " 

Philip  replied  that  he  had  not  a  copy  with 
him,  and  her  countenance  fell. 

"  But  if  you  would  really  like  to  possess 
some  of  them,  I  will  write  a  line  to  my  pub- 
lisher, and  ask  him  to  send  them  in  a  packet 
to  Kersaint.  They  will  remind  you  of  me 
when  they  arrive,  and  I  am  gone." 
,  "  Gone  !  "  echoed  Mr.  St.  John  and  Mar- 
guerite together,  in  a  tone  that  spoke  the 
sincerity  of  their  surprise. 

"  Oil!  do  not  go,"  the  latter  softly  added. 
"  Father,  do  not  let  Mr.  Earnsdiffe"go  !  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  remain  in  Britta- 
ny half  the  summer,"  urged  Mr.  St.  John. 

"  But  not  trespassing  on  your  hospitality," 
Philip  replied. 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  are  conferring  a  sim- 
ple favor  upon  an  invalid  like  myself  in  re- 
maining here  ;  and  Marguerite,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  has  the  pleasure  of  being 
with  a  youthful  companion,  and  listening  to 
another  voice  than  mine.  We  have  so  little 
to  attract  you  that  I  cannot  press  you  to  re- 
main ;  but  it  will  pain  me  to  bid  you  fare- 
well." 

His  manner  was  even  kinder  than  his 
words.  Philip  felt  that  the  invalid  really 
wished  him  to  stay  with  him,  and  it  coincided 
but  too  well  with  his  own  desire.  Con- 
science, however,  once  more  urged  him  to 
leave  Marguerite,  and  he  faintly  pleaded 
something  about  his  wish  to  visit  the  remot- 
er parts  of  Brittany. 

"  Of  course,  you  should  do  so,"  returned 
Mr.  St.  John ;  "but  you  could  not  choose 
a  more  central  spot  for  this  object  than  Ker- 
saint. Have  your  luggage  sent  here  from 
Quimper,"  (where  Philip  had  left  it),  "  and 
make  this  head-quarters.  You  can  take  ex- 
cursions without  end,  and  return  every  few 
days  to  rest,  and  give  us  the  pleasure  of 
your  society." 

Marguerite  did  not  speak,  but  she  watched 
his  face.  He  paused  irresolutely,  a  sense 
of  duty  still  warring  with  inclination ;  then 
he  said,  hesitatingly — 

"  I  really  do  not  like,  stranger  as  I  am,  to 
accept  your  kind  invitation — " 

"  If  that  is  all,"  interrupted  Mr.  St.  John, 
"  your  objection  is  at  an  end.  I  do  not  con- 
sider you  a  stranger  already,  and  besides, 


76 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


all  the  world  may  claim  to  know  a  celebrat- 
ed writer.  I  look  upon  you  as  our  promised 
visitor  for  many  weeks  to  come. 

And  Philip,  overcome  by  Mr.  St.  John's 
warmth,  and  his  own  wishes,  accepted.  The 
note  was  written  that  morning,  and  des- 
patched to  his  publisher;  and  Marguerite 
counted  the  days  that  must  elapse  before  the 
books  could  by  any  possibility  arrive.  Phil- 
ip said  his  last  work  was  for  her  father,  but 
the  earlier  ones,  the  poems  and  tales,  were 
for  her.  And  when  he  added,  "  Will  you 
accept  them  as  your  own  from  me  ? "  she 
could  scarcely  answer  for  delight. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THEY  generally  walked  together  by  the 
sea  for  an  hour  or  two  at  sunset ;  and  on  the 
evening  of  this  day  Marguerite  had  more 
than  usual  to  say.  "  She  was  never  weary  of 
asking  Philip  about  his  writings,  trying  to 
make  him  repeat  aloud  any  passages  he  could 
remember,  and  only  discontinued  when  she 
at  length  saw  he  really  did  not  relish  the 
subject.  But  she  wondered  extremely  how 
he  could  prefer  their  usual  strain  of  conver- 
sation, to  speaking  of  what  engrossed  all  her 
thoughts.  "It  is  because  he  thinks  me  so 
childish,  and  that  I  am  not  able  to  under- 
stand him,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Alter  wandering  for  some  time,  they  rest- 
ed upon  a  high  rock,  which  stood  somewhat 
apart  from  its  fellows,  and  watched  the  tide 
come  in.  Although  the  weather  was  still 
fair,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  wind,  and  the 
waves  were  high,  each  bearing  a  wreath  of 
foam  that  the  sun  converted  into  flame,  and 
which  formed  a  singular  contrast  to  the  cool, 
pearly  green  of  the  water  beneath. 

"  1  like  to  feel  the  spray  upon  my  face," 
said  Marguerite.  "  I  low  can  people  be  hap- 
py away  from  the  sea?  " 

"  Do  you  not  like  the  country  better?  " 

"  Y'ou  mean  the  fields  and  forests?  Well, 
I  like  them  too.  and  I  could  not  bear  to 
leave  them;  hut  I  love  the  sea!  Trees  and 
ilowers  are  merely  beautiful,  but  the  sea  is 
living,  and  it  has  been  my  companion  all  my 
life.  It  has  a  thousand  voices  and  expressions 
that  I  can  understand  :  it  can  smile  like  a  human 
fa'-e  in  the  sunshine,  or  moan  and  wail  like 
no  other  voice,  when  it  casts  up  the  drowned 
fisherman  on  the  shore :  it  can  break  ami 
Mir^e  over  the  huge  rorks.  and  even  uproot 
them  fmiii  their  rcst.ing-plaee,  as  it  did  yon- 
der Kcniot  dilf  last  winter.  Yes.  tl:> 
full  of  Me  and  powr,  and  I  love  it  !  Think 
how  dull  it  would  be  here  in  winter  without 
the  roaring'nf  the  waves  !  " 

I'lulip  smiled.  "  Do  you  consider  that  a 
cheerful  sound?"  he  asked. 


"  Not  cheerful,  it  is  grand  :  and  when  we 
have  clear  frosty  weather  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  the  waves  are  still,  it  seems  quite  lone- 
ly." She  sang  a  note  or  two  from  an  old 
ballad,  then  was  silent.  After  some  minutes 
Philip  said,  abruptly — 

"Sing  to  me,  Marguerite!  I  feel  ill  at 
ease  this  evening,  and  I  should  like  to  hear 
your  voice  in  the  open  air,  with  only  the  fall 
of  the  waves  for  an  accompaniment ;  sing 
something  low  and  melancholy." 

After  pausing  to  select  what  would  please 
him,  she  began  one  of  her  plaintive,  old 
Scotch  songs.  Her  voice  sounded  unusually 
sweet,  and  Philip  leant  back  against  the  rock, 
his  hat  pulled  forward  to  shade  his  eyes  from 
the  slanting  sun,  gazing  at  her  profile,  and 
listening  to  her  rich  tones  with  a  perilous 
keenness  of  delight.  His  poet's  tempera- 
ment made  him  subject  to  a  thousuud  temp- 
tations from  which  another  man  would  have 
been  free ;  and  a  soft  half-hour  at  sunset 
could  at  any  time  turn  into  nothing  his 
strongest  resolutions. 

"That  was  delightful,  Marguerite!"  he 
whispered,  when  she  had  finished. 

"  Was  it?"  she  replied.  *'  Does  it  really 
give  you  pleasure  to  hear  me  ?  I  suppose 
my  voice  must  be  good,  then." 

"In  all  London  I  never  heard  a  voice  like 
yours,  off  the  stage.  If  you  took  lessons 
for  two  years,  you  would  be  a  first-rate  sing- 
er. Would  you  not  like  to  be  courted  and 
sought  after  in  society  for  your  extraordina- 
ry talent  and  beauty?"  He  wished  to  see  if 
anv  desire  for  admiration — that  strongest 
feeling  with  most  women — lay  dormant  in 
the  girl's  heart. 

"  No,"  she  returned,  after  thinking  a  little. 
"  I  am  quite  sure  it  would  give  me  no  happi- 
ness. I  should  not  care  for  all  the  people  at 
those  great  parties  you  tell  me  of,  and  I 
should  not  value  their  praises  :  how  can  it 
signify  what  strangers  think  of  you  ?  The 
praise  of  one  or  two  would  be  sulli  -ient  for 
me.  I  should  like  to  be  beautiful  and  loved, 
I  confess  ;  but  I  would  rather  not  be  celebra- 
ted." 

"  You  are  right !  "  said  Philip.  "  Fame  is 
wearisome  in  the  pursuit,  unsatisfactory  in 
possession." 

"  Oh,  you  should  not  say  so!"  Marguer- 
ite interrupted.  "  I  only  meant  that,  lor 
myself,  1  could  not  value  it.  If  I  were  a 
man  I  should  be  ambitious:  and  I  should 
like  mv  brother,  if  I  had  one,  to  be  very 
celebrated.  1  could  glory  in  /i/.v  success.1" 

It  wa>  a  dangerous  remark.  Philip's  eyes 
softened  as  they  rested  upon  Marguerite's 
Blowing  face;  and  he  remembered  Lady 
( 'lara  and  her  sympathy  with  him. 

"What  might  1  have  been,"  he  thought, 
"  if  I  had  had  this  -irl  for  my  wife?  What 
illicit  1  still  lie,  if  I  were  no\v  free  to  choose  ? 
Coilld  yon  nut  extend  this  feeling  |.i  any  but 
a  brother:'  "  he  went  on,  aloud.  "  If  at  any 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


77 


future  time,  for  instance,  yon  hear  that  I  am 
a  very  celebrated  writer,  will  it  give  you  no 
pleasure  ?  " 

She  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  replied,  look- 
ing up  kindly  in  his  face,  "  It  would  give  me 
more  pleasure  than  anything  in  the  world. 
Except  my  father,  you  are  my  only  friend, 
and  I  should  like  to  hear  of  you  as  though 
you  were  really  my  brother.  But  that  will 
never  be, "  she  added,  mournfully.  "When 
you  leave  Kersaint,  I  feel  it  will  be  for  ever, 
and  I  shall  not  even  hear  your  name  again." 

"  You  are  wrong,  Marguerite  ;  I  shall  re- 
turn here  next  summer,  if  I  live." 

"Will  you  promise  that?  It  will  give 
me  something  to  hope  for  during  the  win- 
ter." 

"  If  you  are  still  here,  I  promise  it,"  Phil- 
ip replied ;  but  he  felt  too  truly  that-by  an- 
other summer  Marguerite  might  be  an  or- 
phan. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  improved,"  she  resum- 
ed, timidly  :  "  my  father  is  going  to  teach  me 
so  much  next  winter,  and  I  shall  have  a 
greater  interest  in  learning  now.  How  do 
you  think  he  has  looked  the  last  day  or 
two  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  varies  much,"  answered  Phil- 
ip,   evasively.      A    week's    observation    had 
.  convinced  him  that  Mr.  St.  John  was  wast- 
\ing  away  under  the  slow,  sure  influence  of 
consumption,    and   that  his   occasional  good 
spirits   and   heightened    color   were    merely 
symptoms  of  his  treacherous  disease. 

"  But  on  the  whole  he  is  better?  " 

Her  wistful  tones,  as  though  she  half  fear- 
ed his  answer,  smote  him. 

*'  I  trust  your  father  may  be  long  spared," 
he  replied.  "  But  I  think  his  state  requires 
the  greatest  care." 

"  He  is  so  melancholy,"  said  Marguerite, 
"  and  when  we  are  alone  I  find  it  difficult  to 
cheer  him.  He  thinks  more  than  ever  of  my 
mother  now." 

"  She  must  have  died  very  young,"  Philip 
remarked. 

"Yes;  I  believe  before  she  was  twenty; 
but  Mauon  could  tell  you  better  about  her 
'than  I  can.  She  died  directly  after  I  was 
born,  and  they  say  she  never  saw  me.  But 
I  wish  I  had  not  been  told  that ;  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  I  was  never — no,  not  for 
a  minute — in  my  mother's  arms ;  it  makes 
me  unlike  all  other  children  !  " 

Philip  took  the  poor  little  hand  as  it  wiped 
away  her  tears  and  pressed  it.  "  Do  you 
like  to  speak  of  her  or  not  ?  "  he  said  gent- 
ly. • 

"  Yes,  I  like  it,  but  I  never  do  so  to  my 
father ;  it  makes  him  look  so  wretched  ;  and 
Manon  will  not  say  much  of  her  either.  But 
on  mv  birthday  she  always  will — it  is  my 
treat,  the  greatest  of  all  the  year — and  then 
we  sit  together  in  my  own. room,  and  Manon 
tells  me  of  my  beautiful  young  mother,  and 
shows  me  some  of  her  things,.  She  died  of 
some  complaint  of  the  heart ;  and,  do  you 


know,  I  have  often  thought  I  shall  die  of  it 
also  !  They  tell  me  I  am  like  her  in  every- 
thing; and  at  times  I  have  a  sudden,  pain- 
ful feeling — here — which  makes  me  feel  there 
must  be  something  wrong.  Do  you  think  it 
is  likely  ?  "  She  looked  at  him  very  earnest- 
ly- 

Philip  drew  her  to  his  side,  and  pressed 
his  lips  upon  her  long,  shining  hair.  The 
action  was  involuntary,  and  the  feeling  which 
prompted  him  innocent.  At  that  moment 
Marguerite  was  a  perfect  child,  and  he  would 
have,  done  the  same  had  she  been  six,  and 
not  sixteen  ;  but  it  was  a  fatal  precedent.. 

"You  should  not  give  way  to  these 
thoughts,"  he  replied;  "they  might  really 
injure  you,  and  are  without  foundation. 
Both  of  my  own  parents  died  young  of  de- 
cline, yet  you  see  I  am  strong  and  well ;  and 
you,  Marguerite,  have  the  very  bloom  of 
health  upon  your  cheek.  You  must  never 
indulge  these  fancies  again." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  will  not,  after 
what  you  say.  But  I  never  mentioned  it 
before  to  any  one,  though  I  have  often 
thought  of  it.  I  should  be  sorry  to  die, 
now  that  my  father  seems  getting  better, 
and  that  you  have  come  to  us." 

She  had  not  shrunk  from  his  si.le,  and 
there  was  no  blush  upon  her  cheek  now. 
Speaking  of  her  dead  mother,  and  of  her 
own  secretly-cherished  forebodings  of  an 
early  death,  the  feeling  of  timidity  which 
she  occasionally  experienced  towards  Philip 
was  forgotten,  and  he  might  in  reality  have 
been  her  brother — at  that  moment.  And  so 
they  remained,  until  the  sun  was  fairly  set, 
and  the  features  of  each  grew  less  distinct 
in  the  twilight,  and  they  drew  closer  togeth- 
er as  the  fresh  night-wind  rose  from  the  sea. 
Then  Philip  could  hear  the  quick  beatings  of 
her  heart,  and  her  tremulous  breath  amidst 
his  hair,  and  his  own  pulse  grew  unsteady. 
The  delicious  dawn  of  first  love  was  upon 
them  both.  That  time  when  to  breathe  the 
same  air — to  be  silently  at  each  other's  side, 
is  in  itself  happiness  all-sufficing — that  time 
which  is  the  last  remnant  of  Eden  still  left  to 
us — the  only  passionate  delight  that  Dears  no 
trace  of  the  serpent. 

At  length  Marguerite  said  it  was  time  for 
her  evening  reading  with  her  father,  and  she 
must  go. 

"  Stay,"  said  Earnscliffe,  still  holding  her 
hand,  "  another  moment.  Marguerite,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

What  words  were  those*  which  hung  upon 
his  lips?  Fresh  words  of  cruel  tenderness, 
or  a  tardy  avowal  of  his  marriage  P  For 
that  time,  at  least.  Marguerite  did  not  hear 
them.  She  had  turned  as  he  spoke  towards 
the  distant  manoir,  and  saw  her  father  stand- 
ing at  one  of  the  lower  windows.  She  rose 
to  her  feet. 

"Not  now;  he  is  waiting  for  me.  Tell 
me  to-morrow  morning,  before  you  set  out 
I  shall  be  up  very  early,  and  we  will  come 


78 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


out  on  the  terrace  together;  hut  I  cannot 
keep  him  waiting  now."  And  she  ran  quick- 
ly towards  the  house. 

Philip  followed  her  slowly,  and  was  soon 
pacing  up  and  down,  with  his  cigar,  on  the 
terrace — his  usual  evening  walk.  He  had 
already  planned  to  start  on  the  morrow  for 
an  excursion  of  several  days,  and  he  fell 
now,  more  than  ever,  that  it  was  time  for 
some  change — that  every  hour  he  remained 
was  perilous.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  argued 
with  himself  how  pure  were  his  feelings  to- 
wards Marguerite,  and  that,  were  he  free,  he 
would  gladly  make  her  his  wife,  and  give  up 
all  the  excitement  of  his  past  life  for  quiet 
domestic  happiness.  He  was  not  free.  Each 
pressure  of  her  hand,  each  whispered  word 
to  her,  were  so  many  derelictions,  faint,  but 
progressive,  from  the  path  of  honor;  and 
Marguerite's  ignorance  of  wrong,  and  her 
father's  perfect  trust  in  him,  made  his  posi- 
tion the  gravrr. 

"  If  I  had  Neville's  strong  will,"  thought 
Philip,  "  with  my  own  conscientious  scruples, 
I  should  have  left  them  at  once.  He  might 
see  no  harm  in  the  passing  deception,  and 
treat  it  all  as  the  amusement  of  a  few  sum- 
mer weeks ;  but  at  least  he  would  act  hon- 
estly up  to  his  conviction,  whilst  1  " — his  rev- 
erie was  here  interrupted  by  a  footstep  ad- 
vancing from  the  garden,  and  turning  round, 
he  distinguished  Manon's  square,  solid  figure 
as  it  approached  him  in  the  dusky  light. 

Manon  held  the  opinion  common  amongst 
French  persons  of  her  class,  that  to  be  alone 
is  the  summit  of  human  misery,  and  as  the 
gupper  did  not  then  require  her  attention, 
she  had  purposely  joined  Philip  for  a  little 
conversation.  She  had  an  immense  liking 
for  the  handsome  young  Englishman,  but  he 
was  so  engrossed  all  day  with  Marguerite, 
that  she  had  rarely  a  chance  of  speaking  to 
him  alone. 

"It  is  a  dull  evening,  monsieur;  I  am 
sorry  to  see  you  by  yourself." 

"  And  you  have  kindly  come  to  bear  me 
company,  Manon ;  I  have  not  seen  you  all 
day." 

"••  No,  you  have  been  on  the  beach,  or 
away  with  mademoiselle,  as  usual.  Poor 
child  !  it  docs  my  heart  good  to  see  her  with 
a  companion,  after  her  life  of  solitude.*1 

"  She,  was  talking  to  me,  for  the  first  time, 
to-day,  of  her  mother,"  said  Philip. 

••  \Vas  she  so,  mon-ieur?  Yes,  it  is  her 
favorite  subject,  hut  I  do  not  allow  her  to 
dwell  mueh  upon  it;  it  is  not  well  for  the 
young  to  brood  over  death  and  sorrow. 
Hep  mother!  she  grows  more  like  her  every 
day."  Manon  raised  her  brown  hand  to  her 

"  Was  she  as  beautiful  as  her  daughter  is 
now?"  Philip  asked. 

"  Ye-,"  returned  Manon,  4<  and  as  sweet 
and  loving.  Ah,  monsieur  !  hers  was  a  Had 
young  life — so  sad,  you  would  not  (arc  to 
Lear  it  told." 


"  On  the  contrary,  I  should  feel  the  great- 
est interest  in  it.  In  anything  concerning 
Mr.  St.  John,"  he  added. 

"  Well,  monsieur,  if  it  will  pass  away  the 
time  for  you,  I  will  tell  it.     I  am  sure  I* may 
confide  anything  to  you  with  safety  ;  but  you 
will  see,  without  my  asking  you,  that  it  is'not " 
a  subject  for  you  to  mention  again  to  my  , 
master." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  low  bank  at  one 
end  of  the  terrace,  in  the  attitude  consecrat- 
ed from  time  immemorial  to  the  teller  of  a 
story — her  head  erect,  and  her  hands  cross- 
ed— while  Philip  leant  against  the  balustrade 
at  her  side,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

The  sky  was  now  overcast,  and  the  occa- 
sional cry  of  the  owl,  and  the  mournful  beat- 
ings of  the  sea,  formed  a  fit  prelude  for  the 
history  of  Marguerite's  mother. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"  I  WAS  just  sixteen,"  said  Manon,  "  when 
I  first  entered  into  the  service  of  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Josselin.  He  was  one  of  the 
oldest  seigneurs  in  Brittany,  though  no  long- 
er rich ;  indeed,  the  vast  possessions  of  his 
family  had  dwindled  down,  they  said,  to 
scarcely  more  than  the  old  chateau  and  es- 
tate of  Beaumanoir,  near  Quimper,  where 
he  lived  with  Madame  la  Comtesse  and  their 
only  child  Mademoiselle  Lilla. 

"  I  was  her  foster  sister;  and  next  to  her 
own  parents,  she  loved  none  so  well  as  me. 
When  we  were  both  children,  she  saved  all 
her  treasures  and  dainties  to  share  them  with 
me,  and  she  would  leave  all  her  companions 
to  come  and  play  with  me  and  our  goat  upon 
the  moor.  I  can  see  her  now,  in  her  little 
white  dress,  plucking  the  marguerites  de 
pre,  and  the  coqnclicots,  to  hang  them  round 
Mimi's  neck ! 

"  Well,  when  I  was  sixteen,  and  madem- 
oiselle a  few  months  younger,  the  first  grief 
of  my  own  life  came — my  moth'T  died.  My 
father,  who  was  old  and  infirm,  was  hence- 
forth to  live  with  my  married  sister;  and  I 
was,  in  a  manner,  east  upon  the  world. 
But  Mademoiselle  Lilla  entreated  her  parents 
with  such  earnestness  that  I  might  be  taken 
into  the  chateau,  that  they  at  length  con- 
sented, and  I  became  her  own  maid — or  rath- 
er her  Companion,  for  she  always  treat- 
ed me  as  a  sister — and,  in  the  happi: 
being  with  her,  my  grief  for  my  mother's 
(teati)  gradually  diminished,  ;-nd  we  were, 
again  like  ehildren  together. 

"She  was  at  that  time  the  nm-t  beautiful 
ereature  I  ever  beheld.  Her  hair  wa-  more 
golden  thr.n  Marguerite's — her  eyes  <>|  a  softer 
blue  ;  and  her  whole  laee  and  figure  had  some- 
thing reminding  me  of  the  pieiure  of  ( )ur  Lady 
in  the  cathedral,  as  it  looks  in  the  moonlight. 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


79 


But,  though  she  was  fragile  and  delicate, 
mademoiselle  had  high  spirits  ;  and  it  would 
have  done  your  heart  good  to  hear  her  merry 
laugh  ringing  through  the  gloomy  rooms  of 
tlfe  old  chateau.  Her  parents  doted  on  her 
— I  have  never  denied  them  that — but  they 
were  both  proud  and  fond  of  money — Ma- 
dame la  Comtesse  especially ;  and,  when 
they  looked  at  their  daughter's  sweet  face,  I 
believe — God  help  them  ! — they  thought 
more  of  the  grand  marriage  it  would  enable 
her  to  make,  than  of  anything  else. 

"When  my  foster  sister  was  just  seven- 
teen, her  cousin,  the  Marquis  de  St.  Leon, 
came  to  stay  with  us.  He  was  about  six- 
and-twenty,  slight,  fair,  with  dark  eyes,  and 
a  low  voice — a  voice  not  unlike  yours,  mon- 
sieur— and  I  saw,  from  the  first  day,  he 
would  love  her.  Soon  his  eyes  never  left 
mademoiselle ;  and,  as  they  all  walked  up 
and  down  under  the  cliarmille,  in  the  summer 
evenings,  I  could  see  him  continually  at  her 
side,  and  I  knew  how  it  would  be. 

"  Shall  I  confess  to  you  that  a  feeling  of 
jealousy  crossed  me  at  the  idea?  I  knew 
that  it  was  wicked,  that  of  course  she  must 
marry  some  day,  and  I  become  nothing  to 
her ;  but  still  I  felt  it.  She  was  all  I  had  in 
the  world,  and  I  could  not  bear  that  she 
should  take  any  of  her  love  from  me. 

"  Gradually  I  saw  a  change  come  over 
her;  she  no  longer  cared  for  our  childish 
games,  she  was  silent  and  thoughtful  and 
would  blush  whenever  her  cousin's  name  was 
mentioned.  At  length,  one  day  she  ran  hur- 
riedly into  my  little  room  where  I  sat  work- 
ing, her  face  all  flushed  and  tearful,  but  so 
happy,  and  told  me  that  the  Marquis  had 
proposed  for  her,  and  had  been  accepted. 
Even  in  her  new  joy  she  did  not  forget  me ; 
but  said  I  was  her  dear  sister  still,  and  that 
I  should  continue  to  live  with  her  after  she 
married ;  and  I  was  ashamed  that  I  had  ever 
felt  jealous  of  her  cousin. 

"  He  was  believed  to  be  rich ;  for  a  good 
patrimony  was  said  to  have  descended  to 
him  a  few  months  before,  on  his  father's 
death,  and  my  master  and  his  lady  appeared 
well  satisfied  with  the  engagement.  Our  bish- 
op— Monseigneur,  at  Quimper — wrote  off  to 
the  Pope  of  Rome  for  a  dispensation  (because 
they  were  first  cousins)  :  they  were  soon  for- 
mally betrothed  to  each  other,  and  then  the 
Marquis  returned  to  Paris  to  arrange  his  af- 
fairs, while  at  the  chateau  preparations  for 
the  wedding  were  begun  at  once. 

"  It  would  weary  you  to  tell  the  excite- 
ment and  bustle  we  were  all  in.  Mademoi- 
selle Lilla  was  the  gayest  of  us  all,  and  her 
cheeks  bloomed  brighter  than  they  had  ever 
done  before.  It  was  not  a  marriage  like 
most  others,  do  you  see,  merely  made  up 
between  parents  without  consulting  the  chil- 
dren's hearts:  she  loved  her  cousin  truly, 
and  looked  forward  to  a  life  of  quiet  happi- 
ness with  him  when  she  should  become  his 
wife. 


"  The  Marquis  had  been  gone  about  three 
weeks,  and  we  now  expected  him  back  for 
good  in  a  few  days,  when  the  wedding  waa 
to  take  place.  Mademoiselle  got  a  little  pa- 
ler as  the  time  drew  on,  and  appeared  more 
thoughtful  again.  I  believe  the  near  ap- 
proach of  a  great  happiness  makes  one 
tremble,  or  perhaps  a  secret  foreboding  of 
coining  evil  might  have  hung  over  her  ;  but, 
however  this  was,  all  the  preparations  went 
on  as  usual,  until  one  morning,  when  two 
letters  arrived  from  Paris  for  my  master,  and 
put  an  end  to  all  our  joys  and  hopes. 

"He  was  walking  on  the  terrace  with 
Madame  la  Comtesse  when  they  were  given 
to  him  ;  and  mademoiselle  and  I  were  watch- 
ing them  from  the  window  of  her  own  sit- 
ting room,  where  we  generally  spent  the 
forenoon  together.  The  reading  of  these 
letters  seemed  to  produce  an  extraordinary 
effect  on  the  Comte  and  his  wife,  yet  it  did 
not  exactly  appear  that  they  had  received  bad 
tidings ;  on  the  contrary,  after  consulting 
long  together,  there  was  a  triumphant  look 
upon  the  face  of  my  lady  when  they  return- 
ed towards  the  house  which  made  rue  shud- 
der without  any  real  reason,  and  my  foster 
sister  threw  her  trembling  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  said  she  knew  her  mother's  smile 
boded  no  good  to  Henri.  She  never  per- 
sonally liked  him,  and  I  believe,  although 
she  accepted  his  suit,  she  thought  her  daugh- 
ter ought  to  have  married  a  prince  at  least. 

In  about  an  hour's  time,  a  knock  came  at 
the  door,  and  a  femme  de  chambre  entered, 
and  told  mademoiselle  that  Monsieur  le 
Comte  wished  to  speak  to  her  in  the  library. 
Her  hand,  which  was  fast  clasped  in  mine, 
turned  as  cold  as  ice  at  this  message  ;  how- 
ever, she  immediately  rose  to  obey,  and  tell- 
ing me  to  remain  there  until  her  return,  she 
walked  slowly  from  the  room. 

'*  I  waited  long — so  long,  it  seemed  to  me 
like  hours — before  she  came  back,  tormenting 
myself  with  thinking  of  all  that  could  have 
happened;  but  when  at  length  the  door 
opened,  and  she  tottered  in,  I  felt  sure  none 
of  my  fears  had  been  bad  enough.  Monsieur, 
did  you  ever  see  a  young  face  gain  the  ex-' 
pression  of  years  of  misery  in  one  day  ?  if 
so,  you  can  imagine  how  Mademoiselle  Lilla 
looked.  She  was  not  pale,  she  was  ashy; 
and  there  was  a  look — a  fixed,  hard  look — 
upon  her  soft  features,  which  made  her  seem 
positively  old.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever 
saw  anything  of  her  mother  in  her  face. 

'*  '  Oh,  mademoiselle  ! — oh,  my  darling! ' 
I  cried  ;  '  what  is  the  matter  ?  Is  Monsieur 
Henri  dead  ? ' 

' '  She  seated  herself  without  speaking,  and 
remained  so  for  several  minutes ;  then  she 
turned  and  said,  in  a  harsh  and  altered  voice 
— '  Manon,  never  mention  his  name  to  me 
again.  Dead,  no  !  a  thousand  times  worse  ; 
would,  God,  he  were  dead!'  She  moved 
about  that  day  and  the  next  like  a  thing  of 
stone;  on  the  third,  she  told  me  to  come 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


with  her  and  walk.  I  remember  when  it  was, 
a  mild  autumn  day,  and  we  wandered  through 
the  woods  until  we  readied  a  small  kind  of 
temple  that  stood  by  the  lake,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  chateau.  She  had  used  to 
come  here  with  her  cousin  when  they  were 
'engaged;  hut.  after  he  left,  we  had  had  no 
leisure  for  walking,  and  this  was  the  first 
time  she  had  visited  it  since.  '  Let  us  rest,1 
she  said  ;  '  I  am  weary.1 

'*  She  looked  very  pale,  and  I  opened  the 
door  of  the  temple  for  her  to  go  in.  There, 
upon  the  rustic  table,  lay  a  hunch  of  withered 
flowers — they  had  gathered  them  in  their  last 
walk  together  among  the  woods,  and  after- 
wards forgotten  them  in  their  happiness — and 
close  beside  them  was  one  of  Monsieur 
Henri's  gloves.  For  a  moment  she  stood  still, 
her  lips  drawn  tightly  together,  and  her 
hands  clenched;  then,  with  a  stifled  cry,  she 
seized  the  glove,  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  her 
bosom,  uttered  a  thousand  tender  words  over 
it,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  They 
•were  the  first  she  had  shed  ;  and  I  believe 
those  tears  saved  her  reason.  When  slowly 
pile  recovered,  the  unnatural  firmness  had 
left  her  face,  and  of  herself  she  began  speak- 
ing of  her  cousin.  Still  holding  his  gtove  in 
lier  trembling  hands,  she  told  me  her  father 
had  discovered  accidentally  that  he  was  un- 
worthy of  her;  that  he  was  leading  the  most 
wild  and  dissipated  life,  and  at  the  very  time 
of  their  engagement  had  made  his  profligacy 
and  his  intended  marriage  with  her,  alike  a 
boast  and  a  jest  among  his  companions. 
*  And  I  wrote  him,1  she  went  on — '  I  wrote 
him  a  letter  at  once ;  my  mother  dictated  it, 
I  could  not  think  for  myself;  but  I  know 
that  I  gave  him  back  his  false  love,  and  told 
him  from  that  moment  he  was  free,  and  that 
I  thanked  (Jod  I  was  so  too.  I  could  not 
write  it  now,1  she  added,  softly;  '  for  though 
I  would  not  be  his  wife.  I  forgive  him  every- 
thing ;  and,  Manon.  Manon,  I  love  him  still  ! 1 
She  carried  back  the  withered  flowers  and  the 
plove.  Ah,  monsieur!  she  never  parted  with 
them  again,  as  you  will  see. 

"\Vinter  set  in  early  and  severe;  and 
rnademoi.-clle  grew  so  pale  and  thin,  that  I 
feared  L-reatly  for  her  health.  Her  parents. 
too,  at  last  took  alarm.  I  think  her  mother 
must  have  felt  some  pangs  of  self-reproach 
when  she-  looked  at  her  child's  face,  ami  knew 
it  was  her  own  work  ;  she  was,  however, 
entirely  taken  up  with  a  new  scheme,  and 
perhaps  that  prevented  her  from  seeing  Made- 
moiselle Lilla  av  others  did. 

"  It  appeared  that  one  of  the  letters  on 
that  fatal  morning,  was  a  proposal  of  mar- 
na;_re  from  a  gentleman  of  great  riches,  but 
about  three  time-  her  a-je,  who  had  seen 
mademoiselle  at  a  country  fete  some  months 
before;  ami  either  was,  or  pretended  to  be, 
ignorant  of  her  engagement  to  her  con<in. 
They  had  written  to  him  without  consulting 
their  daughter,  but,  as  she  afterward-  t<>M 
uje,  begged  him  to  wait  fora  few  months,  o» 


account  of  her  extreme  youth.  Madame  la 
Comtesse  judge  rightly,  that  it  would  be  well 
to  let  her  first  sorrow  pass  awav  before 
speaking  toiler  again  of  marriage.  'When  at 
length,  however,  she  thought  the  time  come, 
and  did  ask  her  consent  to  marry  this  new 
suitor,  she  was  surprised  at  mademoiselle's 
decided  rejection  of  him.  «  I  shall  never 
marry  Henri,1  she  said,  'but  I  will  have  no 
other — at  least,  not  yet.  Give  me  one  vear, 
mother,  before  you  speak  to  me  of  those 
things  again.1 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  proud  and 
grasping  for  wealth ;  but  still  she  was  a 
mother,  'and  she  could  not  withstand  her  poor 
child's  mournful  face,  so  they  unwillingly 
wrote  and  told  this  gentleman,  that  their 
daughter's  health  was  too  delicate  for  her  to 
think  of  marrying  at  present;  and  shortly 
afterwards  we  all  went  to  Paris  for  the  winter. 
They  had  several  grand  physicians  for  my 
foster  sister,  and  they  all  said  she  had  as  yet 
no  positive  disease  ;  but  that  she  had  a  dis- 
position to  something  of  the  heart.  I  forget 
what  they  called  it,  it  was  a  long  word  ;  but 
I  knew  what  the  complaint  was  better  than 
they,  and  could  have  given  it  a  shorter  name 
— her  heart  was  breaking. 

"  She  went  to  parties  and  balls — '  she  must 
be  amused,"  they  said,  '  and  forget  the  past ; 1 
but,  when  she  came  home  each  night,  weary 
and  pale,  and  would  weep  upon  mv  breast, 
in  all  her  silks  and  flowers,  I  thought  she 
would  have  been  better  sleeping  quietly  in 
her  grave.  She  never  met  her  cousin  ;  for, 
immediately  he  received  her  letter,  we  were 
told  he  had  gone  right  away  to  India,  or 
America — I  doi^t  rightly  know  which — so,  at 
least,  she  was  spared  the  pain  of  seeing  him 
again. 

"  Well — T  must  not  keep  you  in  the  cold 
too  long — when  we  had  been  in  Paris  about 
four  months,  mademosielle  met  an  English- 
man in  society,  who  pleased  her  better  than 
all  the  gav  young  men  she  had  known  as  yet  ; 
and  that  was  my  master — Mr.  St.  John.  He 
was  pale  and  quiet  even  then,  but  had,  I 
used  to  think,  a  look  of  her  cousin,  which 
may  have  struck  her  too.  At  all  events,  she 
liked  him  ;  and  when  after  a  few  weeks  he 
proposed  to  her,  she  said  to  her  mother, 
'  Let  me  marry  Mr.  St.  .John?1 

"  I  was  in  the  room  at  the  time — for  they 
kept  nothing  from  me — and  she  ne\er  blush- 
ed or  cast-  down  her  eyes,  as  she  had  done 
lor  the  marquis;  she-  was  quite  earnest,  but 
cold  and  quiet.  I  believe  she  chiellv  thought 
of  leaving  Paris  and  all  these  gay  parlies; 
and  she  did  not  remember,  poor  child!  that 
she  had  no  love  to  give  with  her  hand. 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  her  parents, 
alter  all  their  schemes.  The  doctors  said, 
unless  they  allowed  her  to  marry  M  ril«  liked, 
and  at  once.  >he  would  die  :  and  they  had  no 
choice  but  to  consent.  Mr.  St.  John,  how- 
ex  er.  was  not  a  rich  man.  and  did  nothing 
but  read  and  write  books;  so,  alter  all, 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


81 


mademoiselle  made  what  is  called  a  very 
poor  marriage,  although,  God  knows,  she 
gained  a  true  and  faithful  heart  in  my  master. 

"  Alter  the  wedding,  her  first  words  to 
her  husband  were,  *  Let  me  go  back  to  the 
country.'  And  he  took  a  pretty  place  not 
far  from  Paris,  where  they  passed  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage.  I  remained  with 
them,  you  may  be  sure;  and  whe.i  at  last  a 
fair  little  daughter  was  placed  in  my  darling's 
arms,  I  thought  her  old  smile  had  come  back 
for  good,  and  that  she  would  grow  really 
well  and  happy.  My  maste'r  loved  her  be- 
yond everything  on  earth ;  he  thought  of 
nothing  but  her — and  she  was  so  sweet  and 
gentle  that  it  was  only  natural  he  should  be- 
lieve she  loved  him  in  return,  for  he  had 
never  heard  anything  about  her  former  en- 
gagement with  the  marquis. 

"  When  the  baby  was  a  few  months  old,  a 
distant  relation  of  her  mother's  died,  and 
left  this  property  of  Kersaint  to  my  young 
mistress.  I  believe  it  was  very  acceptable  to 
them ;  for  her  father's  estate,  as  he  had  no 
son,  would  go  to  an  uncle  on  his  death ;  and 
he  had  nothing  but  that  to  leave.  And,  be- 
sides this,  Mr.  St.  John,  who  was  too  book- 
learned  to  understand  money,  had  lent  near- 
ly all  his  to  a  relation  to  be  put  out  in  busi- 
ness, and  he  had  just  failed  at  the  time  of 
the  child's  birth.  So  they  decided  for  the 
present  to  come  and  live  quietly  at  Kersaint. 

"They  had  many  friends  in  Paris;  and 
thougli  neither  of  them  cared  about  society, 
they  were  persuaded  to  go  there  for  a  few 
weeks  before  starting  for  Bretange. 

'*  That  was  a  fatal  delusion,  monsieur. 

"  They  were  invited  out  a  great  deal ; 
and  one  evening  they  had  gone  to  a  grand 
f£te  at  some  foreign  ambassador's,  and  I.  as 
usual,  was  sitting  up  to  undress  my  mistress 
on  her  return,  when  I  heard  the  carriage  en- 
ter the  port-cochere  of  the  hotel  an  hour  or 
two  earlier  than  I  had  expected.  I  ran  out 
with  a  light  into  the  great  corridor  to  meet 
them,  and  after  waiting  some  minutes  I  saw 
Mr.  St.  John  supporting  his  wife  with  diffi- 
culty up  the  stairs.  She  was  just  as  white  as 
the  day  when  she  broke  off  with  her  cousin, 
and  had  something  the  same  expression  on 
her  face. 

"  '  Eh,  mon  Dieu  !  I  cried,  '  what  has  hap- 
pened?' 

"  '  Your  mistress  has  been  taken  suddenly 
ill,'  replied  my  master,  quite  calm,  though 
he  too  was  very  pale.  •  Get  her  to  bed, 
good  Manon,  and  watch  with  her  through 
the  night ;  it  is  best  for  her  to  be  kept  per- 
fectly quiet.' 

"  He  left  us  at  the  door  of  the  sleeping- 
room,  and  I  did  watch  with  her  through  that 
dreadful  night.  At  first  she  was  faint  and 
unconscious ;  but  that  soon  passed,  and  the 
worst  was  then  to  come.  All  she  said  I 
could  not  tell  you  ;  but  I  gathered  from  her 
delirious  talk  that  in  the  middle  of  the  ball 
she  had  suddenly  seen  her  cousin,  whom  she 


believed  far  away  in  America.  He  had  spok- 
en to  her  and  asked  her  to  dance ;  instead 
of  that,  however,  they  had  gone  into  an- 
other room  alone,  and  there  for  the  firat  time 
she  heard  the  truth. 

"  The  letter  which  her  father  had  received, 
on  the  same  morning  with  the  fresh  proposal 
for  her  hand,  was  from  Monsieur  Henri,  say- 
ing, that  on  looking  into  his  affairs,  they  were 
not.  so  straight  as  he  believed :  his  father  in 
fact  had  been  extravagant,  and  the  money 
did  not  all  come  clear  to  the  marquis.  But 
in  the  letter  he  had  asked  for  time,  and  said 
he  would  start  gladly  for  foreign  parts,  and 
try  to  win  more  money  for  himself,  if  his 
cousin  would  only  wait  for  him. 

"  '  And  they  never  told  me  this,'  she  cried. 
'  They  deceived  me,  cruel  father !  cruel 
mother !  they  deceived  me,  and  I  wrote  him 
that  letter  !  "  I  thanked  God  that  I  was  free  ! 
when  I  would  have  died  for  him,  when  I  lov- 
ed him — when  I  love  him  still.'  And  slm 
took  his  glove  from  the  place  where  it  always 
lay  with  the  withered  flowers,  and  wept  over 
it  till  I  thought  she  would  die  from  weeping. 
I  never  saw  such  grief  before,  or  since,  and  I 
think  it  was  the  worse  coming  from  one  so 
gentle  as  my  mistress. 

"  Towards  morning  I  bethought  me  of 
something  that  might  soothe  her ;  and  as  I  had 
now  persuaded  her  to  lie  down  in  her  bed,  I 
crept  from  the  room  to  the  baby's  nursery, 
and  wrapping  it  in  a  shawl,  I  brought  it  back 
sleeping,  and  placed  it  in  her  arms.  For 
one  moment,  monsieur,  she  shrunk  back  from 
her  child.  It  was  only  a  moment,  however. 
The  next  she  covered  it  with  kisses  and  hug- 
ged it  to  her  heart.  It  woke  ;  and  seeing  its 
mother,  gave  a  soft  cooing  cry,  and  held  out 
its  hand  to  her  breast ;  the  little  touch  I  sup- 
pose recalled  everything  to  her,  that  she  was 
another  man's  wife  and  a  mother,  for  she  at- 
tempted to  check  her  sobs,  and  I  could  see 
that  she  was  praying  over  the  child. 

"She  was  long  dangerously  ill;  but  as. 
soon  as  she  could  be  moved,  we  came  down 
to  Kersaint.  When  I  think  of  my  master 
during  that  time,  I  believe  I  pity  him  most 
of  all.  I  was  afterwards  told  that  at  the  balF 
when  my  mistress  fainted,  he  overheard1 
some  of  the  guests  saying  to  each  other  '  Ah  ! 
Madame  St.  John  has  met  her  old  lover — 
poor  husband  ! '  And  this  was  the  first  he 
ever  knew  of  her  former  engagement.  Afe 
all  events  he  never  looked  the  same  after 
that  night. 

"  The  sea  air  and  change  seemed  to  do 
her  good ;  and  she  tried  so  hard  not  to  re- 
pine, and  to  be  thankful  to  live,  that  her 
husband  could  not  but  forgive  her — indeed, 
he  was  soon  more  devoted  to  her  than  ever. 
He  is  unlike  all  other  men ;  and  when  from 
herself  he  heard  the  whole  story,  and  how 
she  had  been  deceived,  he  forgot  his  own 
disappointment*  and  only  tried  to  make  up 
to  her  with  his  love  for  what  she  had  lost. 

"  A  year  passed  by  ;  and,  though  she  was 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


not  worse,  I  could  see  that  she  did  not  really 
gain  strength.  At  times  her  color  was  high, 
and  she  would  rally,  and  sing  to  him,  and 
play  with  the  child ;  but  suddenly,  her  hand 
would  be  pressed  to  her  heart,  and  the  faint 
shade  round  her  lips  told  me  she  was  suffer- 
ing inward  pain.  At  the  end  of  that  year 
the  child  died — died  of  croup — in  the 
night,  when  we  all  thought  she  had  fallen 
asleep  in  perfect  health ;  and,  from  that 
hour,  I  knew  we  should  lose  my  mistress. 
She  showed  no  passionate  grief — she  scarce- 
ly wept  for  the  child ;  but,  when  she  hung 
over  the  little  body  in  its  coffin,  she  smiled  ; 
and  I  could  see  she  was  only  parting  with  it 
for  a  short  time.  It  was  the  last  thing  that 
kept  her  to  life. 

"And  now  she  faded  rapidly;  every  day 
I  saw  a  change  ;  but  what  made  it  worse  was, 
that  she  expected  soon  again  to  be  a  mother. 
She  liked  to  be  carried  out  by  my  master  to 
the  terrace,  and  would  sit  there  for  hours, 
watching  the  sea,  with  a  kind  of  dim  look 
upon  her  face,  but  seldom  speaking.  When 
I  tried  to  rouse  her,  for  the  sake  of  the  un- 
born babe,  she  would  only  say,  'Pray  God, 
Manon,  that  it  be  not  a  girl !  I  do  not  wish 
to  bring  another  sorrowful  life  into  the 
world.' 

"While  she  was  able  to  sit  up,  however, 
she  embroidered  a  little  cap  for  the  child 
— I  have  it  now,  monsieur — Marguerite 
would  sooner  look  at  it  than  at  all  the 
treasures  on  the  earth — and  said,  when  it 
was  finished,  *  This  is  all  I  shall  ever  do  for 
my  child.' 

"  She  knew  she  should  die  at  its  birth — 
and  she  was  right.  She  never  even  rallied 
enough  to  hold  it  in  her  arms.  But,  on  the 
morning  of  that  day,  she  said  to  me,  '  Ma- 
non, be  faithful  to  my  husband,  as  you  have 
been  to  me,  and  never  leave  him  and  my 
child.'  I  promised  her,  and  I  have  kept  my 
word.  Monsieur,  I  feel  the  first  drops  of  a 
thunder-shower,  and  it  is  supper-time." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

MANON'S  prediction  was  right.  A  violent 
thunderstorm  broke  that  night  over  Kersaint ; 
and,  when  Philip  prepared  to  depart  at  an 
early  hour  tin-  following  morning,  the  weather 
was  still  dark  and  lowering. 

44  You  had  Letter  not  go,"  said  Marguer- 
ite, as  they  sat  alone  together  at  breakfast 
(Mr.  St.  John  having  taken  lea\e  of  his 
visitor  the  previous  evening),  "  I  am  sure 
there  will  be  another  storm,  and  one  day 
can  make  no  dilfereii 

Philip,  however,  knew  that  each  day  did 
make  a  dilferenee  ;  ami,  for  once,  In-  re- 
mained linn.  He  went;  and  Marguerite  felt 
that  her  whole  lifi:  hail  become  a  blank. 


The  days  succeeding  his  departure  were 
dark  and  gloomy.  Mr.  St.  John,  who  was 
affected  by  every  change  of  weather,  was 
not  so  well,  and  kept  to  his  own  room,  and 
the  lonely  silence  of  her  home  struck  Mar- 
guerite as  it  had  never  done  before.  She 
could  not  take  the  old  interest  in  her  birds 
and  flowers,  but  she  was  too  restless  to  re- 
main within  doors  ;  and,  except  at  those  times 
when  she  was  with  her  father,  spent  the  en- 
tire day  wandering  near  the  sea,  listening  to 
its  soothing,  familiar  voice,  and  dreaming 
those  first  dangerous  dreams  which  further 
the  progress  of  an  absent  lover,  far  better 
than  his  own  presence. 

Philip  was  away  more  than  a  fortnight,  ex- 
ploring among  the  wilds  of  the  Menes  Arres 
hills,  and  the  Loc  Mariaker  lakes.  The 
lone  grandeur  of  the  scenery,  and  the  char- 
acter of  the  people  among  whom  he  passed, 
really  interested  him ;  he  needed  a  strong 
contrast  to  his  soft,  artificial  life,  and  here  he 
found  it.  But  in  his' wanderings,  with  no 
companion  save  his  own  thoughts,  he  had 
unfortunately,  quite  as  much  time  for  dream- 
ing as  Marguerite  ;  and  he  returned  to  Ker- 
saint  with  his  heart  fuller  of  the  little  "  wild 
daisy  "  than  when  he  started. 

During  his  absence  the  packet  of  books 
had  arrived  from  London,  and  were 'opened, 
as  Philip  requested  they  should  be,  by  Mar- 
guerite. In  addition  to  the  copies  of  his  own 
works,  he  had  ordered  several  new  books 
which  he  thought  would  interest  Mr.  St.  John, 
and  one  or  two  of  a  different  nature  for 
Marguerite.  But  all  of  these  she  laid  aside  ; 
they  were  not  his,  and  she  scarcely  thought 
of  them  again.  The  name  of  Philip  Earns- 
cliffe  upon  the  title-pages  of  his  works,  had, 
for  her  childish  eyes,  a  charm  beyond  every- 
thing she  could  have  imagined.  She  made 
her  father  scrupulously  reserve  to  himself  the, 
one  bearing  the  latest  date,  which  Philip  told 
her  was  for  Mr.  St.  John,  and  read  and  re- 
read the  volume  containing  his  early  talcs 
and  poems  with  more  deep  interest  and  ad- 
miration than  had  ever  been  bestowed  upon 
them  in  his  time  of  first,  success.  There  were 
no  faults  for  Marguerite  ;  she  (Mi joyed  the. 
fresh  beauty  of  the  style,  without  perceiving 
its  irregularity,  and  entered  into  all  the 
young  poet's  glowing  visions  of  life,  without 
knowing  they  were  false.  But  to  Mr.  St. 
John  the,  perusal  of  KarnsdilVe's  last  work 
laid  open  a  page  of  the  author's  own  life, 
lie  knew  that  such  exceeding  bitterness 
against  one,  peculiar  class  of  society  could 
not  flow  from  the  pen  of  so  \oung  a  writer 
if  it,  were  really  a  principle;  and  felt,  sure, 
from  his  own  experience  of  human  nature. 
that  some  great  personal  disappointment 
gave  a  latent  tone  to  his  writings.  lint  of 
the  true  nature  of  this  disappointment  he 
could  not  even  surmise.  The  idea  of  Philip 
licing  married,  of  course,  never  presented 
itself.  Young  and  handsome,  it  was  not  like- 
ly that  he  should  already  ha\c  made  ship- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


83 


wreck  in  love ;  and  his  literary  career  ap- 
peared to  have  been  successful.  So  Mr.  St. 
John,  who  was  naturally  somewhat  apathetic 
about  the  concerns  of  others,  simply  con- 
jectured that  his  guest  had  passed  through 
some  one  of  the  great  trials  of  life,  and 
troubled  himself  no  further  on  the  subject. 

When  Philip  returned,  his  host's  true  and 
measured  criticism  upon  his  works,  and  Mar- 
guerite's undisguised  admiration  of  them,  af- 
forded him  more  real  pleasure  than  any  in- 
cense to  his  author's  vanity  which  he  had  yet 
received.  He  remained  some  days  at  the 
manoir,  then  made  another  more  distant  ex- 
cursion ;  and  in  this  manner  two  or  three 
months  passed  quickly  by.  Mr.  St.  John 
and  his  daughter  grew  accustomed  to  his  fre- 
quent absence,  but  they  always  awaited  his 
return  with  renewed  pleasure.  Philip  Earns- 
cliffe  was  becoming  a  part  of  their  existence 
— hitherto  so  barren  in  events — and  they 
neither  of  them  would  even  speak  of  the  in- 
evitable time  when  he  should  leave  Brittany, 
and  they  return  to  their  old  monotonous  life. 
An  intellectual  companion  had  roused  Mr. 
St.  John  from  his  habitual  melancholy,  and 
given  him  once  more  an  interest  in  the  things 
he  had  cared  for  in  other  days  ;  while  Mar- 
guerite— poor  little  Marguerite  ! — every  week 
made  her  feel  the  more  that  her  whole  earth 
was  now  concentrated  into  Philip's  presence. 

All  this  time  he  had  guarded  himself  well. 
Constantly  associating  with  Marguerite, 
watching  all  the  dawnings  of  her  young 
mind,  reading  but  too  truly  the  varying  col- 
or of  her  cheeks,  and  in  the  full  possession 
already  of  her  every  thought  (that  first  soul- 
possession  which  mocks  at  all  other,  and  to 
which  no  future  rival  can  attain) ,  he  had  yet 
breathed  no  syllable  of  his  own  fast  deepen- 
ing passion ;  he  had  said  no  word  that  she 
might  not  have  listened  to  from  a  brother — 
nothing  which  her  father  might  not  have 
heard.  That  one  kiss,  whose  recollection 
yet  thrilled  through  him  a  hundred  times  that 
day,  had  been  the  first  and  last : — if  he  took 
her  hand,  his  own  pressure  was  grave  and 
calm ;  and  Earnscliffe  thought  that  he  was  in 
all  things  acting  like  a  man  of  honor. 

But  the  hour  of  awakening  from  this  dream 
of  self-reliance  was  very  near. 

"  I  think  you  should  take  Mr.  Earnscliffe 
to  the  grotto  of  Morgane,  Marguerite,"  said 
Mr.  St.  John  one  evening  to  his  daughter. 
I*  There  is  scarcely  anything  more  curious 
in  the  neighborhood ;  and,  indeed,  in  Brit- 
tany. Do  you  think  it  would  be  too  far  for 
you  in  this  hot  weather  ?  If  so,  Bruno  must 
act  as  guide  in  your  place." 

Marguerite  did  not  think  it  would  be  in 
the  least  too  far.  "  They  might  start  early, 
while  it  was  yet  cool,  take  a  basket  of  pro- 
visions with  them,  and  return  at  sunset,  after 
spending  a  long  day  in  the  caves.  She  knew 
the  way  better  than  Bruno,  and  would  be 
able  to  tell  Mr.  Earnscliffe  all  the  different 
legends  connected  with  the  place." 


Mr.  Earnscliffe  appearing  equally  anxious 
with  herself  that  she,  and  not  Bruno,  should 
be  his  companion,  the  expedition  was  soon 
planned,  and  it  was  settled  that  on  the  fol- 
lowing Monday  they  should  start  by  seven 
o'clock  for  the  distant  grotto. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  they  went 
together  to  church ;  Manon  having  heard 
low  mass  at  an  earlier  hour,  in  order  to  be 
with  Mr.  St.  John  during  their  absence,  for 
his  state  was  now  so  uncertain  as  to  make 
her  dread  leaving  him  alone. 

It  was  a  great  festival  of  the  church,  and 
the  music  was  more  than  usually  fine.  The 
morning  sun  streamed  through  the  Gothic 
windows,  throwing  a  thousand  richly-colored 
gems  around  the  altar ;  the  freshest  flowers 
stood  there,  mingling  their  odors  with  the 
voluptuous  sweetness  of  the  incense ;  the 
notes  of  the  organ  stole  in  soft,  prolonged 
whispers  through  each  dim  aisle  and  distant 
chapel  of  the  immense  cathedral ;  and  when 
the  priest,  a  tall  and  dignified-looking  man, 
held  aloft  the  glittering  symbol  of  our  salva- 
tion, and  every  head  bowed  before  it  in  low- 
ly reverence,  Philip  was  carried  away  by  all 
the  poetry  of  the  scene,  and  sank  on  his 
knees  upon  the  pavement.  He  felt  some- 
what ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm,  when,  on 
glancing  at  Marguerite,  he  saw  her  calm  and 
unmoved  at  his  side,  evidently  fully  enjoying 
the  music  and  beauty  around  her,  but  with 
no  trace  of  devotion  upon  her  face.  When 
they  were  on  their  way  home  he  recurred  to 
it,  and  asked  her  if  the  solemnity  and  grand 
effect  of  the  service  never  made  her  feel  half 
a  Catholic.  She  looked  quite  surprised. 

"  Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  of  my  fa- 
ther's religion  ?  "  she  answered. 

"Yes,"  said  Philip;  "but  it  would  be 
only  natural  if  you  had  a  leaning  occasional- 
ly towards  the  only  faith  whose  services  you 
have  ever  heard  celebrated." 

•*  But  it  is  not  my  father's  faith,"  was  her 
reply. 

That  answer  was  the  key-note  to  her  whole 
character.  Sentiment,  reason,  religion  itself 
must  be  derived  with  her  from  the  person  she 
loved.  Hitherto  this  one  person  had  been 
her  father ;  and  she  could  not  even  admit  the 
possibility  of  temptation  to  feel  otherwise 
than  he  had  taught.  Perfect  trust  in  him 
was  the  leading  article  in  her  early  belief, 
and  she.  was  now  unconsciously  extending 
this  faith  to  Philip. 

The  following  morning  was  hazy  and  full 
of  promise,  a  true  summer  morning  ;  and  by 
a  little  after  seven  they  had  started  for  their 
distant  walk.  Marguerite  was  radiant  with 
spirits,  but  Philip  felt  less  inclined  to  talk 
than  usual.  The  perpetual  restraint  under 
which  he  forced  himself  to  act  began  to 
chafe  him  ;  and  perhaps  some  internal  warn- 
ing told  him  that  this  long,  lonely  day  to- 
gether would  not  be  passed  through  without 
betraying  him  into  words  that  nothing  could 
efface ;  while  Marguerite's  unconstramt  and 


84 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


growing  familiarity  made  his  position  only 
the  more  difficult  to  maintain. 

Nearly  their  whole  road  lay  by  the  sea- 
side. For  the  first  mile  they  kept  on  the 
aands ;  but  then,  as  the  tide  was  now  in, 
they  were  obliged  to  aseend  a  high  cliff  in- 
tervening between  them  and  the  next  bay, 
•which  at  low  water  might  be  reached  by  the 
rocks.  The  road  was  steep,  but  Marguer- 
ite was  accustomed  to  climbing,  and  as  the 
sun  was  not  yet  hot  they  soon  reached  the. 
summit,  where  a  wide  table-land  lay  spread 
before  them.  The  scene  was  monotonous 
in  the  extreme,  yet  still  possessing  a  kind 
of  indefinable  harmony  which  was  not  with- 
out its  charm.  The  rocks  festooned  with 
heath  in  full  flower — the  mysterious  Druid 
circles  of  stones — the  silence  only  broken 
by  the  hoarse,  measured  whisper  of  the 
waves  far  beneath — all  was  in  unison  ;  and 
the  sea-breeze,  which  at  this  height  was  as 
invigorating,  as  real  mountain  air,  made 
Marguerite's  young  blood  circulate  in  her 
veins  with  a  feeling  of  actual  pleasure.  But 
Philip  was  still  depressed.  The  view  before 
them  was  just  of  that  unmarked  character 
which  takes  its  coloring  entirely  from  the 
tone  of  spirits  in  which  it  is  seen,  and  the 
immensity,  the  solitude,  the  perfect  repose, 
weighed  upon  him,  while  they  stimulated  his 
companion. 

44  Look  !  "  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  touch- 
ing his  hand  with  her  accustomed  quick  ges- 
ture— '*  a  chase  !" 

He  turned  and  saw,  almost  immediately 
behind  them,  two  birds,  whose  cries  had  at- 
tracted her  notice ;  one,  a  heron,  who  was 
still  considerably  a-head,  and  in  pursuit  of 
her  one  of  the  larger  kind  of  hawk. 

"  Poor  bird  !  "  continued  Marguerite  ;  "  I 
hope  she  will  escape."  And  they  stood  still 
and  watched  this  natural  "  hawking,"  which 
soon  became  so  near  a  chase  as  to  be  con- 
liderably  exciting. 

The  hawk  gained  gradually  upon  his  prey, 
and  was  at  length  so  close  that  they  expect- 
ed each  moment  to  see  him  strike.  He  had, 
however,  missed  his  aim,  or  in  the  ardor  of 
purMiit  forgotten  his  usual  wariness,  and  in- 
stead of  flying  over  the  heroin,  and  thus  se- 
curing her  at  once,  he  passed  about  a  foot 
beneath  her,  receiving  at  the  same  instant  a 
>igorous  stroke  from  her  long  beak,  which 
made  him  turn  over  twice  or  thrice  in  the 
air  with  pain.  At  first  it  seemed  as  though 
lie  would  descend  to  the  ground  ;  but  then, 
giving  a  shrill,  angry  cry  of  defiance,  he  rose 
with  redoubled  energy  t«>  the  pursuit.  Mean- 
time, the  heron  had  profited  by  her  tempo- 
rary advantage-,  and  taken  a  I're.sh  turn  to- 
wards a  distant  .shelter  of  fir-wood,  hoping 
this  time  to  >ave  herself  by  distance,  not 
height.  I'.ut  the  hawk  saw  the.  manuMivre, 
and  cutting  diagonally  through  the  air  with 
tl  e  ntpidity  of  an  arrow,  he  almost  met  her 
in  her  downward  flight.  The  heron  gave 
two  or  three  screams  of  distress,  and  om-e 


again  attempted  to  escape  by  suddenly  ris- 
ing perpendicularly  as  she  had  done  at  first ; 
her  pursuer  followed  her  hotly,  and  after 
some  seconds  the  two  birds  had  become  like 
two  mere  black  specks  upon  the  pale  sky. 

"Will  she  escape?"  cried  Marguerite, 
quite  breathless  in  anxiety  for  the  heron's 
fate.  "  Poor  bird,  did  you  hear  her  cry?  " 

"No,"  returned  Philip;  "she  will  not 
escape.  It  is  an  unequal  contest,  the  weak 
against  the  strong,  as  is  usual  in  this  world." 

"See — see,"  Marguerite  exclaimed,  "the 
hawk  is  uppermost  now,  and  listen  to  her 
screams ! " 

As  she  spoke,  a  long  cry,  just  audible  in 
its  intense  agony  of  distress,  was  again 
heard,  and  both  birds  began  swiftly  to  de- 
scend. The  heron  now  attempted  no  longer 
to  defend  herself;  she  sank  rapidly,  only  an- 
swering to  the  incessant  strokes  of  the  hawk 
by  her  screams.  Suddenly  she  folded  her 
wings,  and  shot  downwards  like  a  stone.  It 
was  her  last  feint,  but  her  antagonist  did  the 
same ;  and  when  she  again  attempted  to 
take  flight,  a  tremendous  blow  from  his  beak 
finally  overcame  her.  She  continued  to  fall, 
occasionally  turning  over  in  the  air,  and  at 
the  moment  that  she  touched  the  earth,  the 
hawk  pounced  down  upon  her  with  an  exult- 
ing shriek  that  drowned  her  last  faint  cry. 

The  two  spectators  had  watched  the  final 
scene  with  equal  interest,  and  tears  for  the 
heron's  death  stood  in  Marguerite's  eyes. 
But  there  was  a  singular  expression  upon 
Earnseliflfe's  face. 

"The  weak  against  the  strong,"  he  re- 
peated, as  they  resumed  their  path. 

Marguerite  "little  knew  that  the  unequal 
struggle  between  the  two  birds  could  have 
awakened  any  comparison  to  themselves  in 
his  mind. 

"I  have  watched  this  kind  of  chase  be- 
fore," she  said,  "  but  never  saw  the  weaker 
bird  escape.  How  could  the  ladies  in  olden 
times,  whom  T  have  read  about  to  my  father, 
delight  in  assisting  in  such  cruel  sport?  ' 

"  It  is  an  unnatural  feeling  for  your  sex," 
replied  Philip.  "In  ours,  the  delight  of 
hunting  and  destroying  what  is  weak  is  in- 
herent from  our  cradles.  As  school-hoys 
we  persecute  every  defenceless  creature,  we 
come  across  ;  as  men " 

"  Well,"  said  Marguerite,  "  why  do  you 
hesitate?  Surely  you  were  not  going  to  say 
that  all  men  are' cruel  !  At  least  I  know  two 
exceptions:  my  father  would  not,  destroy:! 
worm  upon  the  path;  and  you,  Mr.  Karns- 
clifle,  I  am  sure  would  pTOCeCt  everything 
weaker  than  yourself." 

The  unconscious  appeal  touched  him. 

"  I  believe  I  would,  dear  Marguerite," 
In-  answered.  "  But  at  least  I  am  glad  that 
vou  extend  your  favorable  opinions  of  hu- 
manity to  me."  He  looked  down  into  her 
trotting  lace,  and  impulsive  in  everything, 
suddenly  determined  to  tell  her  at  once  of 
his  marriage.  It  was  one  of  his  better 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


85 


resolutions,  and  he  gave  himself  no  time  to 
waver. 

"  Come,  Marguerite,"  he  continued, 
"  we  have  still  a  long  day  before  us  ;  let  us 
rest  awhile  on  the  heath  under  the  shelter  of 
yonder  group  of  firs,  and  converse  a  little. 
I  have  something  to  tell  you  in  which,  I  be- 
lieve, you  will  take  an  interest. 

They  walked  on  about  a  hundred  yards,  to 
the  solitary  trees  he  mentioned,  Marguerite's 
eyes  dancing  in  expectation  of  the  secret  she 
was  to  hear,  and  she  then  seated  herself, 
her  head  leaning  against  one  of  the  fir 
trunks,  while  Philip  took  his  place  at  some 
distance  from  her,  and  with  his  face  averted 
from  his  companion. 

"  Now  begin,"  she  cried.  *4 1  am  sure  it 
is  something  very  interesting. 

"  To  me  it  is,"  he  returned,  "  although  I 
have  no  reason  for  supposing  it  should  be  so 
to  others.  It  is  about  myself " 

"  That  is  right,"  interrupted  Marguerite. 
"  Only  yesterday  I  told  my  father  I  should 
like  to  know  all  the  history  of  your  life,  and 
I  even  wished  him  to  ask  you ;  but  he  said 
you  would  tell  us  just  as  much  as  you  liked, 
and  I  ought  not  to  be  so  curious.  Now,  you 
will  tell  me  all — and,  first,  why  you  are  some- 
times so  sad." 

She  turned  her  large  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  childish  affection,  that  might  again 
have  made  him  irresolute  had  he  seen  their 
expression  ;  but  his  own  were  intently  fixed 
upon  the  tiny  blossoms  of  the  wild  thyme  at 
their  feet,  and  with  a  sort  of  effort  he  began. 
He  told  her  of  his  childhood,  of  his  parents' 
death,  of  his  uncle's  kindness,  of  his  school- 
boy dreams,  and  tried  to  linger  over  all  these 
early  recollections,  which  delayed  him,  as  it 
were,  in  his  approach  to  the  darker  period 
of  his  life.  Marguerite  liked  to  hear  every 
detail,  and  when  at  length  he  spoke  of  his 
first  book  and  its  success,  she  clasped  her 
hands  and  exclaimed  with  pleasure.  He 
then  told  her  somewhat  of  his  progress 
in  great  London;  he  mentioned  Neville 
and  one  or  two  of  his  other  friends,  and  at 
last  he  brought  his  lips  to  speak  of  Lady  Clara. 

"Was  Lady  Clara  very  beautiful?"  she 
asked,  timidly. 

"  She  was  not  beautiful ;  she  was  pale  and 
sickly,  and  rarely  smiled." 

"  Was  she  young  ?  " 

"Older  than  myself." 

*'  Was  she — I  mean — did  your  cousin  like 
you  very  much  ?  " 

Earnscliffe  only  smiled  bitterly  at  the 
question;  and  Marguerite  was  silent.  With- 
out knowing  why,  she  felt  her  heart  throb 
painfully,  and  an  odd,  stifled  sensation  at  her 
throat.  Had  Philip  loved  his  cousin  without 
return  ? 

"Marguerite,"  he  resumed  abruptly,  "I 
can  better  describe  my  cousin's  character 
when  I  have  told  you  the  real  tie  which 
binds  her  to  me.  Lady  Clara  is  my  wife." 


"Your  wife!"  she  stammered;  "your 
wife  !  Are  you  married  ?  "  The  words  died 
away,  and  with  it  all  the  flush  of  youth  on 
Marguerite's  face.  Married !  She  looked 
aside  over  the  vast  heath,  at  the  grey  curlews 
which  circled  round  the  Druid  stones,  and 
the  fern  leaves  waving  in  the  wind,  and 
knew  that  it  was  all  monotonous  and  dreary, 
though  the  sun  shone  brighter  than  ever. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on  with  .desperate  resolu- 
tion, "  I  have  been  married  for  some  years  ; 
but  my  marriage  has  been  misery  to  me.  I 
have  long  been  parted  from  my  wife  ;  I  would 
give  all  in  this  world,  yes,  my  talents,  my 
hope  for  the  future  itself,  to  undo  that  miser- 
able marriage.  The  recollection  of  it  is  so 
bitter  to  me,  that  on  corning  abroad  I  re- 
solved to  mention  it  to  none  but  those  al- 
ready acquainted  with  my  past  history,  and 
thus  I  have  deceived  you,  too.  Will  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

The  sorrow  on  his  face  was  so  real  that 
she  forgot  herself,  and  extended  her  hand  to 
him.  Earnscliffe  pressed  it,  hesitated,  then 
relinquished  it  abruptly,  and  went  on  with 
his  story.  He  told  her  of  his  uncle's  losses, 
of  the  failure  of  his  own  literary  prospects, 
lastly,  of  his  wife's  leaving  him ;  and  if  he 
spoke  little  of  his  own  errors  it  was  out  of 
respectful  feeling  towards  the  innocent  girl 
who  listened  to  him,  not  from  any  idea  of 
exculpating  himself.  "  I  have  told  you  all, 
Marguerite,"  were  his  last  words.  "  Now 
you  must  be  my  judge." 

She  looked  at  him  irresolutely  for  a  few 
moments  without  speaking ;  and  during  that 
time  her  thoughts  were  painful  ones.  Then 
all  recollection  of  herself,  or  her  own  faintly- 
dawning  hopes,  died  within  4ier.  She  saw 
him  forsaken,  disappointed  in  his  nearest  ties 
and  remembered  him  only. 

"  Philip,"  she  whispered — she  had  never 
called  him  so  before — "  they  have  all  left 
you.  Will  you  let  me  love  you,  and  be  your 
sister  ?  "  and  before  he  had  divined  her  in- 
tention, she  took  his  hand  and  raised  it  to 
her  lips. 

The  reader  (especially  if  a  young  lady), 
must  again  remember  poor  Marguerite's  per- 
fect ignorance  of  the  world,  before  judging 
her  too  harshly.  Of  course,  had  she  been 
properly  educated,  she  would  have  at  once 
returned  home  to  her  father  on  discovering 
that  Philip  was  married,  and  have  felt  a  fit- 
ting amount  of  indignation  at  so  nearly  be- 
ing led  into  loving  him !  But  Marguerite 
knew  absolutely  nothing  of  decorum  ;  and 
she  therefore  stifled  in  her  own  bosom  at 
once,  and  with  a  silent  pain,  those  half- 
formed  visions  of  the  future  which  during 
the  last  few  weeks  had  begun  to  spread  their 
golden  vista  before  her.  And  seeing  Philip 
a  lonely,  and  as  she  understood,  forsaken 
man,  she  tried  to  comfort  him  with  the  same 
childish  caress  that  had  so  often  won  a  smile 
from  the  pale  lips  of  her  father. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


He  withdrew  his  hand  hastily  from  her 
touch. 

**  Have  I  offended  you?  "  she  asked  soft- 
ly, bat  with  no  feeling  of  shame.  "Oh, 
Mr.  EarnsclifFe  !  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  say ; 
indeed,  1  should  like  to  show  how  much  I 
feel  for  you,'1  and  again  she  ventured  to 
touch  his  hand.  Philip  started  to  his  feet. 

44  But  I  am  married,  child !  How  can  I 
talk  to  you  of  love  ?  How  can  I  suffer  my- 
self to  receive  your  innocent  kindness?  Do 
you  not  hear  that  I  am  married  ?  " 

His  voice  had  never  sounded  so  harsh  to 
Marguerite  before. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  looking  timid- 
ly up.  "But  have  I  offended  you?  Will 
you  not  let  me  be  your  little  sister  ?  I  am 
ignorant  and  childish,  I  know ;  yet  you  see 
Low  my  father  loves  me,  and  if  you " 

Philip  took  a  few  paces  upon  the  turf: 
then  he  stopped  short,  and  he  was  very  pale  ; 
but  for  the  present  the  mastery  was  gained. 

"  Marguerite,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  child. 
You  know  nothing  of  life  or  human  nature ; 
and  what  you  offer  is  impossible.  There  can 
be  no  talk  of  brotherly  love  between  a  man 
of  my  age  and  a  young  girl  like  yourself. 
Y"ou  know  not  what  you  say  when  you  ask  it. 
Look  upon  me  as  your  father's  friend — as 
your  own  friend,  if  you  will — but  nothing 
ielse.  I  could  not  love  you  as  a  brother," 
he  added,  bitterly. 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  Not  a  glimmering 
of  his  real  meaning  had  reached  her.  Her 
cheeks  had  never  flushed  at  his  words  ;  and, 
in  a  saddened  voice,  she  proposed  that  they 
should  continue  their  walk.  She  only  felt 
that  he  had  rejected  her  affection ;  and  her 
loving  nature,  not  her  pride,  was  wounded. 

"  Forgive  me  for  what  I  have  said  !  "  she 
whispered,  after  they  had  walked  some  dis- 
tance in  silence. 

Earnscliffe  was  only  human  ;  and  when  he 
looked  down  into  that  sweet,  beseeching  face 
is  it  wonderful  that  warmer  words  than  he  in- 
tended once  more  found  their  way  to  his  lips  ? 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"ARE  you  not  tired,  Marguerite?  " 
44  Xo;  I  am  seldom  tired,  monsieur." 
44  You  are   paler   than  usual.     Take  mj 
arm.  child  ;   the  accent  i|  Steep." 

looked  at   him   wistfully  as  he  spoke 
and  MH-II  aeee|)ted  hisprott'ered  assistan<-e. 

Marguerite   coul.l    not    underhand    Ivirn- 

cl'ilfe  that  day,  or  interpret  his  cha-i^ing  mooi 

— at  nne    time  so  cold    and    formal,  and  thei 

warmer  than  he  had  ever  been  to  her  before 

J'ut  she  thought    the   recollection  of  hi.-,  mar 

uad,  i.erh:i|>-,  mad"    him    fitful    and  ca 

pri.-ioiis,  uiid  tried  to  render  her  own  m  nine 

:i  more  kind  than   usual.      Yet  even  & 


he  walked,  and  strove  to  speak  cheerfully 
>f  the  objects  around,  the  painful  feeling  at 
icr  heart  would  return,  and  unbidden  tears 
tart  into  her  eyes.  Was  it  all  sympathy  for 
Sarnacliffe?  Marguerite  knew  not. 

They  had  soon  finished  the  ascent  of  the 
ast  hill,  and  were  on  the  summit  of  the  steeps 
>f  Morgane,  which  formed  a  boldly-jutting 
)romontory  of  down  and  cliff;  and  the.  sea 
ay  around  them  on  all  sides,  save  that  by 
vhieh  they  had  approached.  Blue  and  silent 
t  lay ;  only  dotted  over  by  the  tiny  sails  of 
he  fisher-boats,  or  the  black  rocks,  around 
which  there  was  scarcely  sufficient  foam  to 
whiten ;  and  the  sea-birds  skimmed  lazily 
over  the  quiet  world  of  waters. 

'  Our  path  is  here/1  said  Marguerite,  ap- 
proaching to  the  ve*y  edge  of  the  cli(f ;  "  but 
[  have  first  a  visit  to  make  to  my  friend  the 
gabarier.  That  is  his  house."  She  pointed 
;o  a  rude  kind  of  hut,  built  into  a  corner  of 
the  rock,  about  thirty  feet  beneatli  them,  and 
so  completely  of  the  same  grey  color,  as  at 
irsttobe  scarcely  distinguishable.  The  roof 
was  merely  a  mass  of  dried  sea-weed,  kept 
down  by  some  enormous  stones ;  and  the 
smoke  from  the  peat-fire,  issuing  through  more 
than  one  aperture,  showed  that  the  mid-day 
iieal  of  the  family  was  preparing.  The 
gabarier  himself  sat  outside  the  door  on  the 
small  platform  of  projecting  earth,  which 
formed  the  extent  of  his  worldly  possessions, 
employed  in  mending  nets,  and  watching 
some  four  or,  five  half-clad  urchins,  who  were 
seated  on  the  very  ed<*e  of  a  precipice  of 
several  hundred  feet,  kicking  their  legs  in 
the  air,  and  trying  to  push  each  other  on,  in 
a  manner  which  in  no  way  discomposed  their 
parent — these  being  the  daily  practices  of 
the  infant  Blaisots,  from  the  time  they  could 
walk  alone. 

Marguerite  tripped  down  the  steep  path 
which  led  to  the  hut,  and  then  suddenly  call- 
ing, "  Pere  Blaisot!"  made  the  boatman 
start  round  with  surprise.  His  harsh  fea- 
tures lighted  up  on  seeing  Marguerite,  who 
ran  to  his  side  and  said  a  few  words,  which 
made  him  turn  and  uncover  to  Earnsclilfe. 

"  We  are  going  t<>  visit  the  caves,  pero 
Blaisot.  The  tide  is  just  right,  is  it  not,  aim 
the  weather  too  ?  " 

"For  the  tide,"  he  replied,  in  his  rude 

patois,   4'  you  must  wait  an  hour  and  a  half. 

For  the  weather,  you  had  best  not  go  at  all." 

"  Why?  "  said'  Margin-rill- ;   "  the  sky  is 

clear,  and  the  sea  without  a  ripple." 

"  Nevertheless,  there  will  be  a  stur-.u  be- 
fore night,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  have  not 
lived  aione  for  thiriy  years  among  the  nx-ks. 
without  getting  to  understand  the  sign*  ot 
ihe  weather.  Take  the  gWlttOtaWMM  to  thQ 
giMtt.o  if  vou  will;  but  re-turn  quickly,  little 
."juecn.  h,  will  be  no  evening  for  such  as 
you  to  be  out." 

Marguerite  translated  his  words  to  Ivirns- 
elitl'c,  who  only  smiled  in  reply,  as  In-  glanc- 
ed towards  the  blue  horizon,  over  which 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


87 


there  appeared  not  even  the  faintest  shadow 
of  a  cloud. 

"He  does  not  believe  me,"  said  the  ga- 
barier,  resuming  his  netting.  "  Maybe  he 
knows  best — night  will  show." 

"  Nay,  father,"  said  Marguerite,  "  I  be- 
lieve you  are  always  right  in  these  things  ; 
and  we  will  certainly  return  quickly  from  the 
grotto.  Meanwhile,  will  you  let  one  of  the 
children  carry  our  basket  for  us  down  the 
cliff,  for  we  shall  have  enough  to  do  minding 
our  own  steps ;  and,  as  we  have  still  an  hour 
to  spare,  we  will  eat  our  dinner  among  the 
cool  rocks  until  the  tide  is  down." 

"Xoser!"  called  the  gabarier — and  a 
sun-burnt  imp  of  seven  summers  disentan- 
gled himself  from  the  heap  of  small  humani- 
ty which  overhung  the  precipice,  and  ran  up 
to  him.  "  Where  is  your  basket,  Ihtle 
queen  ?  "  he  added. 

Marguerite  gave  it  into  Moser's  hands, 
and  his  black  eyes  were  already  sparkling  at 
the  idea  of  purloining  dainties  on  the  way, 
when  the  gabarier  snatched  it  himself,  with  a 
nod,  indicating  small  belief  in  the  good  prin- 
ciples of  his  son.  He  then  bound  the  lid 
strongly  to  the  basket  with  a  piece  of  fishing- 
line,  and  administered  a  hint  to  its  bearer, 
that  if  he  attempted  to  open  it,  his  grand- 
dam  should  whip  him;  and  the  expression 
which  this  awful  promise  awakened  on  Mo- 
ser's face  showed  that  the  threat  was  well  se- 
lected. 

"  Be  off!  "  cried  the  boatman  ;  "  fly  ! " 

The  child  seized  the  basket,  and  appeared 
actually  to  bound  across  the  edge  of  the 
cliff.  Earnscliffe  could  hardly  repress  an 
exclamation  of  horror ;  but  on  approaching 
cautiously,  he  descried  a  kind  of  goat-track 
that,  from  above,  seemed  absolutely  perpen- 
dicular, but  down  which  the  little* rock-imp 
was  already  making  fast  progress. 

**  Is  this  our  road?  "  he  inquired. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Marguerite,  **  but  it  is  noth- 
ing to  what  you  will  find  it  lower  down. 
This  is  easy  walking.  Good  bye,  pere 
Blaisot ;  we  will  be  sure  to  come  back  be- 
fore the  storm." 

The  path  was  certainly  not  so  steep  as  it 
had  appeared  ;  still  it  required  steady  nerves 
and  a  light  foot,  and  the  dry  weather  made 
it  somewhat  slippery.  Earnscliffe,  in  his 
boyhood,  had  been  a  fearless  climber,  and 
he  thought  nothing  of  the  descent  for  him- 
self; but  he  was  astonished  at  Marguerite's 
perfect  coolness,  and  the  speed  at  which  she 
turned  the  abrupt  points  overhanging  the 
sea.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  these  kind 
of  walks,  that  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
look  for  his  assistance,  and  she  did  not  even 
turn  round  until  they  were  more  than  half- 
way down.  Here  the  path  ceased  altogeth- 
er, and  they  had  to  descend  an  abrupt  wall 
of  cliff,  several  feet  deep,  at  whose  base  was 
a  bed  of  loose  soil  leading  down  to  a  perfect 
debris  of  broken  rocks  and  stones.  She 
paused. 


"This  is  the  worst  part,  and  you  must 
help  me,  Mr.  Earnscliffe.  I  am  not  quite 
like  the  gabarier's  children,  who  can  climb 
up  and  down  the  bare  granite  like  little  spi- 
ders." 

Philip  swung  himself  down  the  rock,  and 
then  extended  his  hands  to  Marguerite. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  I  will  lift  you  safely." 

She  was  not  fearful  of  danger,  as  he  had 
seen ;  but  for  a  second  she  shrunk  back, 
and  she  felt  that  her  face  flushed  crimson. 

"I  am  afraid "  she  began. 

"Nay,"  returned  Philip,  gravely,  "you 
are  safe  with  me  ;  come  !  " 

She  had  to  kneel  before  he  could  reach 
Ivjr  waist,  then  he  lifted  her  quickly  to  the 
ledge  beside  him;  but  Marguerite  thought 
she  felt  that  strong  arm  tremble. 

"  Can  you  walk  along  this  narrow  track 
alone,  if  you  are  so  nervous  at  looking  from 
a  height  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  was  not  afraid  of  that,'''1  she  ans- 
wered, looking  up  so  artlessly  in  his  face  that 
he  could  not  forbear  smiling.  Marguerite 
could  never  be  a  woman  for  more  than  one 
minute  together. 

"  You  were  afraid  of  me,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  like — I  mean  to  say  it  would 

have  been  better "  But    she  felt  she  was 

again  betraying  herself;  and,  without  finish- 
ing, ran  quickly  past,  that  he  might  not  see 
her  face. 

There  were  more  difficulties  to  surmount, 
however,  more  rocks  to  descend,  and  by  the 
time  they  had  reached  the  shining  sands 
which  lay  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs,  all  recol- 
lections of  Philip's  marriage,  and  the  re- 
sult produced  upon  both  by  its  disclosure, 
seemed  to  be  forgotten.  They  were  just  on 
their  old  friendly  terms ;  and  Marguerite's 
cheeks  as  bright,  or  a  shade  brighter,  than 
when  they  left  Kersaint. 

They  found  Moser  seated  in  the  middle  of 
some  wet  sand,  the  fierce  sun  streaming  full 
upon  his  bare  head,  while  with  eager  eyes 
and  scent  he  vainly  attempted  to  guess  at  the 
contents  of  the  basket,  through  the  wicker- 
work. 

"  Moser !  "  cried  Marguerite.  He  sprang 
up  detected,  and,  doubtless  with  his  grand- 
dam's  bony  fingers  already  crackling  in  pro- 
spective over  his  ears,  began  pouring  forth  a 
voluminous  mixture  of  tears  and  gibberish. 
Marguerite  told  him,  however,  he  had  per- 
formed his  task  well,  and  opening  the  bask- 
et gave  him  some  fruit,  and  then  a  piece  of 
two  sous,  which  sent  him  home  rejoicing,  to 
display  his  spoils. 

"  JSfow  where  shall  we  dine?  "  she  said. 

They  selected  the  shady  side  of  a  huge 
rock,  where  the  sands  were  dry,  and  near 
which  a  trickling  stream  furnished  them  with 
cold,  fresh  water.  Marguerite  spread  the 
snowy  serviette,  of  Manon's  providing,  upon 
a  small,  flat  rock  on  the  sands,  and  laid  out 
thier  pic-nic  upon  it.  And  a  merry  meal 
they  made  !  They  had  forgotten  kiiives  and 


88 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


forks,  of  course,  and  she  laughed  heartily  at 
Philip's  affectation,  when  he  was  obliged  to 
eat  with  his  fingers  ;  and  they  had.  only  one 
glass  between  them,  and  he  would  always 
insist  drinking  after  her,  although  she  offer- 
ed each  time  to  get  him  fresh  water  from  the 
brook  ;  and — oh.  reader  !  if  you  are  young, 
I  need  not  paint  this  happy  two  hours  to 
you  ;  if  you  are  not,  you  must  remember  at 
least  one  such  morning  of  your  youth,  and 
not  require  my  description. 

"We  are  just  like  children,"  said  Mar- 
guerite, at  length,  trying  to  call  up  a  look  of 
dignity.  *'  Here  we  are,  wasting  the  whole 
afternoon,  when  we  have  so  much  to  see  in 
the  caves;  and,  beside,  we  have  forgotten 
the  gabarier's  storm." 

"  Of  which  there  are  at  present  few  signs," 
added  Earnscliffe.  "  We  are  quite  happy 
here,  Marguerite.  You  ought  to  sing  some 
ballad  connected  with  the  scene  before  I  see 
these  wondrous  caves — and  I  am  sure  they 
will  look  better  at  sunset.  I  should  like  to 
hear  your  voice  first." 

She  sang  to  him,  and  they  lingered  yet  an 
hour  before  starting  for  the  grotto.  Both 
seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  feeling  that  this 
was  in  some  manner  a  farewell  to  their  past 
life  together ;  everything  they  said  was  tinged 
with  the  tone  we  adopt  on  the  "  last  day." 
They  could  neither  of  them  have  framed  this 
presentiment  into  language  ;  but  it  existed  : 
and  never  had  the  presence  of  both  possessed 
for  the  other  so  deep  a  charm  before. 

At  length  they  rose,  and  slowly  pursued 
their  way.  The  caves  were  on  the  other  side 
of  the  creek,  but  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  spot  where  they  had  dined ;  and,  after 
traversing  one  or  two  short  subterranean 
passages  among  the  rocks,  they  again  emerg- 
ed upon  the  sand  opposite  the  entrance  to 
the  principal  grotto  of  Morgane,  where  they 
stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to  remark  the  sin- 
gular character  of  the  cliffs  among  which  it 
lay,  before  preparing  to  enter.  Huge  red 
pyramids  shot  up  against  the  pale  sky  on  one 
side ;  on  the  left,  slate-colored  reefs  of  gran- 
ite, piled  one  upon  another,  overhung  the  sea 
in  giddy,  aerial  galleries;  while  in  many 
parts  the  rocks  were  hollowed  out  by  the 
action  of  the  waves  into  gigantic  arc-ados, 
now  filled  with  swarms  of  grey  cm-lews,  whose 
incessant  cries  might  have  told  to  more  ex- 
perienced hearers  that  a  storm  was  not  far 
off. 

The  entrance  to  the  grotto  was  so  low  that 
they  were  forced  to  walk'for  some  yards  in  a 
stooping  pn>tiire,  jind  then  found  themselves 
in  such  complete,  darkness  as  to  be  unable 
for  several  minutes  to  distinguish  any  object 
around  them.  Gradually,  however,  the 
obscurity  seemed  to  diminish,  and  a  faint 
bluish  ray  Mule  through  the  low  aperture 
they  had  entered,  along  the  shining  walls 
anil  sar-ly  floor  of  the  cave,  until,  as  the  eye 
at  last  became  accustomed  to  this  half-light, 


the  whole  grotto  rose  before  them  like  some, 
scene  in  a  child's  fairy  book. 

The  roof  was  about  forty  feet  in  height 
and  was  completely  covered  with  a  glittering 
vitrification,  extending  down  the  sides  to 
the  base.  Long  veins  of  the  deepest  red  and 
pale  green  marbled  the  dome,  and  gave  a 
softer  beauty  to  the  savage  grandeur  of  this 
natural  palace.  In  the  middle  stood  one 
huge  rock  of  rose-colored  granite,  rendered 
smooth  as  marble  by  the  constant  washing  of 
the  waves  at  high  water,  and  at  the  extreme 
farther  end  was  a  bank  of  bright-colored 
sand. 

Some  of  this  sand  Marguerite  collected  for 
Manon,  who  thought  it  a  great  ornament  to 
the  flower-pots  in  her  windows,  and  after- 
wards she  began  picking  up  shells — of  which 
a  variety  in  every  shade  of  color  lay  profusely 
on  the  ground — while  Philip  stood  watching 
the  singular  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  thinking 
how  well  Marguerite  might  have  personated 
Undine,  in  her  little  white  dress,  and  with  her 
bright  hair  falling  round  her  shoulders.  Again 
they  forgot  the  time,  until  a  sudden  crimson 
ray  fell  upon  the  green  rock,  just  above 
Marguerite's  head,  and  made  Philip  exclaim 
that  there  must  be  some  opening  on  this  sjde 
of  the  cave,  and  that  it  was  already  sunset. 

"  And  time  for  us  to  be  going."  added 
Marguerite.  "  We  will  just  explore  this 
new  entrance,  and  then  return  at  once." 

Directed  by  the  streak  of  sunshine,  they 
were  not  long  in  finding  another  egress,  and, 
after  a  little  climbing,  again  emerged  into 
the  open  air.  The  altered  appearance  of  the 
sky  struck  both  of  them  at  once.  Had  they 
noticed  more  closely,  they  would  have  ob- 
served, even  before  entering  the  caves,  that 
a  few  light  mists  had  arisen  over  the  western 
horizon.  Now  the  entire  sky  was  covered 
with  masses  of  ominous-looking  cloud,  edged 
with  gold,  and  of  a  deep,  inky  purple,  that 
foreboded  coining  tempest.  The  sun  shone 
with  a  lurid  crimson  from  out  the  dark  bank 
into  which  he  was  just  sinking;  the  air  was 
oppressively  heavy;  the  sea  still  quiet. 

44  The  storm  is  coming,"  said  .Marguerite. 
"  Blaisot  was  right,  after  all." 

44  Yes,"  returned  Philip.  "  I  scarcely 
think  we  shall  have  time  to  reach  his  hut 
again  before  it  begins.  See,  there  are  a  few 
drops  already ;  we  had  better  remain  under 
shelter  of  the  rocks  until  it  is  over;  it  will 
probably,  not  last  long." 

Philip  had  not  understood  the  gabarier's 
warning;  and,  observing  the  water  still 
comparatively  low,  and  far  away  upon  tho 
sands, he  thought  only  of'shelter  for  Margin-rite 
during  the  storm,  and  did  not.  calculate  about 
the  return  of  the  tide.  He  was  im.iware  of 
the  treacherous  circles  in  which  it  n 

bOFMi  often  leaving  a  space  of  s.>mu 
miles  apparently  .still  free,  while  its  victims 
have,  in  fact,  Men  surrounded.  S.>  they 
merely  withdrew  a  few  step-,  under  the.  over- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


89 


hanging  rocks,  and  watched  the  progress  of 
the  storm. 

"Are  you  frightened,  Marguerite?"  he 
asked,  for  she  looked  pale. 

"  No,  I  am  with  you ;  I  was  thinking  of 
my  father." 

"  He  will  believe  us  safe  at  the  boatman's 
cabin  by  this  time.  He  will  not  know  how 
we  forgot  the  hour,  like  children,  Mar- 
guerite." 

She  tried  to  smile ;  then  drew  closer  to 
his  side,  and  said,  "  But  I  know  he  will  be 
anxious  for  me ;  and  it  will  hurt  him  in  his 
weak,  nervous  state.  How  I  wish  we  had 
not  lingered !  " 

The  sun  had  now  completely  disappeared 
beneath  the  heavy  ridges  of  cloud ;  and,  as 
Marguerite  finished  speaking,  a  sudden  flash 
of  lightning  almost  blinded  them.  It  was 
closely  followed  by  a  long  peal  of  thunder, 
which  echoed  and  reverberated  through  the 
hollow  of  the  rocks,  until  another  and  a 
louder  peal  succeeded.  Those  who  have  not 
actually  witnessed  it,  can  form  no  conception 
of  the  unearthly  character  of  a  storm  in  such 
a  position  as  that  in  which  they  were  now 
placed.  The  echoes  of  thunder  among  high 
mountains  are  sublime  and  grand  ;  but,  given 
back  by  these  rocks  and  caverns,  they  have 
a  weird,  terrific  sound,  like  voices  from 
chained  demons  in  the  earth,  and  can  scarce- 
ly be  heard  without  an  unacknowledged 
dread  of  the  supernatural.  Soon  the  light- 
ning was  playing  around  them  in  all  direc- 
tions— the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents — 
and,  the  wind  having  suddenly  arisen,  the 
distant  waves  were  seen  rising  angrily  above 
the  sands. 

Earnscliffe  had  still  no  idea  of  their  peril- 
ous position  ;  he  merely  thought  that,  should 
it  come  to  the  worst,  and  the  storm  had  not 
abated  as  the  tide  rose,  they  would  have  to 
walk  through  the  drenching*  rain  to  the  gab- 
arier's  hut.  He  knew  not  that  every  lost 
moment  was  bringing  them  nearer  to  inevit- 
able destruction. 

"  Lean  on  me,  dear  Marguerite  ;  you  are 
terrified." 

"  No  !  Mr.  Earnscliffe  ;  I  see  God  every- 
where around  me;  I  am  not  terrified — but 
for  my  father." 

**  The  storm  may  not  be  so  violent  at  Ker- 
saint;  indeed,  I  think  it  is  abating  slightly, 
even  now — the  rain  is  already  not  so  heavy." 

"  But  the  waves  are  higher." 

"They  will  not  harm  us.  As  soon  as  the 
rain  is  over,  we  will  get  on  before  the  tide 
rises  higher." 

"The  tide!"  repeated  Margueiite.  "Is 
the  tide  rising  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was  half  way  in  ;  see, 
it  has  surrounded  yonder  black  rock,  which 
seemed  a  mile  from  the  sea  when  we  first 
looked  out.  But  we  have  plenty  of  time." 

"  We  have  not!"  cried  Marguerite,  seiz- 
ing his  hand,  while  her  own  grew  cold  and 
damp  with  sudden  terror.  "  The  gabarier 


told  me  not  to  remain  in  the  grotto  one  mo- 
ment after  the  tide  had  turned,  and  it  is  al- 
ready half  way  in." 

"  Child,  you  should  have  told  me  sooner,11 
was  Philip's  calm  reply.  "  God  grant  it  be 
not  yet  too  late  !  " 

He  passed  his  arm  round  her  slight  form, 
and  almost  carried  her  back  through  the  nar- 
row opening  of  the  rock — a  few  more  sec- 
onds, and  they  had  crossed  the  grotto.  Then 
he  placed  her  against  the  centre  rock,  and 
bade  her  wait  for  a  minute,  while  he  looked 
out  at  the  weather. 

Earnscliffe  had  a  stout  heart,  but  it  quail- 
ed before  the  sight  which  awaited  him.  The 
water  was  nearly  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
and  already  separated  them  from  the  main- 
land by  a  broad  and  increasing  channel. 
Quickly  it  came  on ;  each  terrific  wave  bear- 
ing aloft  a  crest  of  whitened  foam,  and 
bringing  death  for  them.  They  were  waves 
no  swimmer  could  have  stemmed  for  many 
minutes,  even  had  he  been  unburthened,  and 
Earnscliffe  knew  that  for  their  rescue  his  own 
powers  were  vain.  Unless  escape  on  the 
other  side  were  possible,  certain  death  was 
before  them. 

He  returned  into  the  grotto — whose  shin- 
ing roof  and  spangled  floor  might  so  soon  be 
their  tomb — and  found  his  companion  pale, 
but  perfectly  silent.  One  glance  at  his  face 
told  her  all. 

"We  are  surrounded!"  she  cried.  "I 
hear  the  waves  already." 

"  We  are  surrounded,  Marguerite,"  he 
answered;  "but  our  longest  chance  of  life 
is  at  the  point  we  have  quitted.  The  sea 
will  cover  the  sand  at  our  feet  in  a  few  min- 
utes." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms — she  lay  cold  and 
still — and  carried  her  quickly  back  to  the 
distant  opening,  which  was  many  feet  higher 
than  the  floor  of  the  grotto ;  and  there,  on 
the  rock  where  they  had  watched  the  sunset, 
he  seated  himself;  Marguerite  still  clinging 
to  him,  and  her  long  hair  falling  round  his 
neck. 

Escape  in  this  direction  he  had  seen  at  a 
glance  was  hopeless.  The  high,  bare  rocks, 
which  overhung  the  shore,  were  perpendic- 
ular, even  could  they  have  reached  them; 
but  a  current  through  one  of  the  many  tun- 
nels at  the  back  of  the  principal  cavern  had 
already  cut  off  retreat  upon  this  side  also ; 
and  the  smooth  granite  which  rose  immedi- 
ately behind  them  afforded  not  even  clinging 
aold  for  the  sea-weed  which  clothed  the 
more  distant  rocks.  Death  was  approaching 
;hem ;  not  slowly,  but  with  each  onward 
surge  of  the  waves — with  every  fresh  gust 
of  the  tempest.  In  another  half  hour  they 
must  pass  through  a  darker  sea  than  the  one 
jefore  them ;  in  another  half  hour  they 
would  be  in  eternity  ! 

They  remained  silent.  Marguerite  had 
gathered  from  Earnscliffe's  face  the  dread 
extent  of  their  danger ;  no  sound,  however, 


90 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


escaped  her  lips — she  was  only  deadly  pale. 
But  the  full  color  of  life  was  on  Philip's 
cheek.  It  was  a  moment  in  which  human 
passion  would  be  supposed  to  die  before  the 
might  of  infinity  around,  and  the  certain  ap- 
proach  of  destruction ;  when  the  soul,  para- 
lysed to  every  other  emotion,  would  be  con- 
centrated upon  its  own  fate  alone,  and  for- 
get the  tumult  of  earthly  desire  which  it  had 
experienced  a  short  hour  or  two  before.  But 
with  Earnscliffe  it  was  not  so.  Life  held  no 
object  for  him  so  dear  as  the  one  to  whom 
he  was  to  be  united  in  death ;  and  he  felt, 
with  a  strange  rapture,  that  he  might  at 
length  hold  her  to  his  heart,  and  disclose  his 
passion  to  her  without  sin.  He  felt  himself 
already  freed  from  the  chain  of  his  marriage  ; 
and  that,  for  the  half-hour  of  time  which  yet 
remained,  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved 
was  his.  His  in  a  more  perfect  possession 
than  life  could  have  bestowed — his  in  her 
latest  breath — in  her  death  agony.  He  fold- 
ed her  closer  still  to  his  bosom,  as  though  al- 
ready preparing  for  the  coming  struggle, 
when  the  waves  should  essay  to  part  them  ; 
he  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  lips  ;  he  poured 
forth  such  words  of  .passionate  love  as  no 
moment  in  real  living  life  could  have  wrung 
from  him  ;  he  thanked  Heaven  he  might  die 
with  her. 

**  Speak  to  me,  beloved,  one  word;  tell 
me,  now  when  God  alone  can  hear,  that  if  I 
had  been  free  would  you  have  loved  me  ?  " 

Even  at  that  moment  of  approaching  death 
her  face  flushed  more  brightly  than  on  the 
May  morning  when,  full  of  life,  he  had  seen 
her  among  the  flowers. 

"  Oh,  Philip  !  I  have  loved  you.  I  have 
thought  of'  nothing  but  you  since  I  have 
known  you,  and  I  am  glad  to  die  with  you — 
except  for  my  father,"  she  added. 

He  did  not  hear  her  last  words,  he  only 
heard  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  was  glad 

to  be  his  in  death ;  and  his  brain  turned. 
***** 

The  storm  raged  on,  the  wind  moaned 
wildly  around  them,  and  the  thunder  rolled 
unceasingly  along  the  cavern.  But  the  con- 
flict of  human  passion  in  EarnscliflVs  bosom 
was  fiercer.  With  his  cheek  bent  down  to 
hers,  and  his  arms  clasped  round  her  as 
though  to  still  the  uneven  beatings  of  her 
heart,  he  heard  every  whisper  from  her  lips 
among  all  the  tumultuous  roar  of  the  hurri- 
cane, felt  every  trembling  breath  she  drew, 
and  counted  them  greedily,  for  he  knew 
their  number  was  measured. 

The  waves  drew  on.  Already  he  felt 
their  spray  upon  his  forehead.  But  he  only 
pressed  her  more  closely,  and  never  rai>ed 
his  eyes  from  her  face;  when  suddenly  tin1 
throbbing  <>\'  ICaigttento'l  he:irf  seemed  to 
cease;  a  livid  color  gained  round  her  lips, 
and  her  hands  relaxed  in  their  hold  upon  his 
— she  had  fainted,  'f'ln-  mingled  eonlliet  of 
emotions  had  ln-i-n  more  tlian  she  could 
bear;  she  lay  cold  Uld MMMMM  in  his  arms. 


A  sudden  revulsion  came  over  Earnscliffe. 
As  he  looked  into  her  pure  marble  face, 
passion  left  him,  and  only  the  nobler  part  of 
love  remained.  He  did  not  even  press  his 
lips  again  upon  those  helpless  onws,  which  so 
lately  were  all  resigned  to  his ;  he  parted 
back  the  hair  from  her  forehead  softly,  as  a 
mother  might  have  done  for  her  dying  child  , 
and  then  rising  to  his  feet,  he  clasped  her  *o 
his  side,  and  in  that  awful  moment  prayed 
God  to  have  mercy  upon  them  both  ! 

Mercy  upon  their  souls  only,  the  time  was 
past  for  auffht  else.  The  next  wave  washed 
to  EarnsclifiVs  feet;  the  next  made  him 
stagger  slightly;  the  next,  he  was  already 
breast-high.  He  retreated  to  the  very  high- 
est attainable  point ;  and  there  the  waters 
from  the  interior  of  the  cave  were  fast 
whitening  through  the  opening.  Another 
minute,  and  they  and  the  sea  without  would 
be  one ! 

Buffeted  upon  every  side,  he  yet  held  his 
senseless  burden  aloft,  and  strove  to  keep 
her  from  destruction  to  the  las£  ;  but  in  vain. 
Already  Marguerite's  long  hair  was  floating 
on  the  water,  and  Earnscliffe,  carried  com- 
pletely off  his  feet,  was  clinging  with  one 
hand  to  the  only  mass  of  sea-weed  which 
grew  upon  the  rock  above  them — the  last 
frail  stay  which  kept  them  from  eternity— 
when,  amidst  the  roar  of  the  waves,  a  long, 
shrill  cry  fell  upon  his  ear. 

It  might  be  only  the  shriek  of  a  curlew 
that  had  lost  her  shelter ;  but  to  Earnscliffe 
the  sound  appeared  that  of  a  human  voice, 
and  it  quickened  his  desperate  hold  upon  the 
sea-weed,  whose  slimy,  treacherous  substance 
was  already  gliding  from  his  hand.  A  wave 
higher  and  stronger  than  those  which  had 
preceded,  broke  over  them  at  this  moment, 
beating  Philip  against  the  rock  with  a  force 
that  almost  stunned  him,  and  causing  him 
half  to  relax  his  hold  upon  Marguerite. 
But  still,  with  the  undying  instinct  of  .ell- 
preservation,  his  other  hand  again  sought  the 
rock,  and  attempted  to  clutch  at  its  surface. 
This  time  he  failed.  Nothing  but  the 
smooth,  polished  granite  met  his  grasp;  and 
another  wave  like  the  last  must  inevitably 
have  sealed  their  doom,  when  again  tin-  cry 
arose,  this  time  distinct  and  near;  and 
through  the  blinding  spray,  and  the  dimness 
of  his  own  bewildered  brain,  Karnsdilfo 
descried,  close  beside  them,  a  boat  contain- 
ing human  figures. 

His  whole  energy  returned  at  tlu»  sight. 
Life,  dear  life,  wtt  WON  him.  Stil!  hold- 
iii'_r  Marguerite  to  his  side,  with  liis  rijjht 
arm  he  battled  against  the  waxes  as  none  hut 
a  piactisrd  swimmer  could  ha\e  done,  Mriv- 
iti'j  to  keep  above  water  until  the  rescue 
reached  them.  Ami.  though  apparently 
ii  hand,  it  was  yet  some  time  before 
the  boat  could  near  the  rock,  the  height  and 
power  of  the  \va\e<  bring  Mich  M  to  place 
her  almost  lieyond  the  control  of  her  crew  ;  and 
once  when  they  were  within  an  oar'.->  length  of 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


91 


Philip,  and  the  cry  of  triumph  had  broken 
from  the  lips  of  the  gallant  boatman,  a  wild 
eddy  again  carried  them  back  many  feet 
from  the  fast-sinking  forms  they  had  risked 
their  own  lives  to  save.  But  they  had  stout 
hearts  and  strong  arms,  these  Breton  gaba- 
riers,  and  they  gained  the  struggle  !  Half- 
senseless,  bruised,  fainting,  Earnscliffe  at 
length  felt  that  a  powerful  arm  had  relieved 
him  of  his  still  inanimate  burden,  and  in 
another  second  he  lay  himself  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat. 

He  knew  not  how  long  he  remained  insen- 
sible. When  he  returned  to  consciousness 
he  found  that  they  were  still  at  sea ;  and  for 
some  moments  the  gigantic  waves  by  which 
they  were  surrounded,  the  lightning-flashes 
across  the  lurid  sky,  and  the  harsh  features 
of  the  boatmen,  seemed  to  him  only  the  rec- 
ollections of  some  fearful  dream,  from  which 
he  was  awakening.  But  he  then  became 
conscious  of  a  soft  hand  clasped  upon  his 
own,  of  a  pale,  sweet  face  bending  down  and 
gazing  into  his  with  breathless  anxiety,  and 
all  the  past  returned  to  his  recollection. 

Marguerite  had  quickly  recovered  from 
her  swoon  ;  and  Earnscliffe  had  so  well  pro- 
tected her,  by  placing  himself  between  her 
and  the  rock,  that  she  was  scarcely  injured, 
although  numbed  and  faint  from  cold. 
When,  from  the  hurried  words  of  the  gaba- 
rier,  she  learned  how  they  had  been  rescued 
in  the  very  moment  of  certain  destruction, 
her  first  thought  was  of  her  father,  and  a 
fervent  thanksgiving  to  Heaven  for  her  own 
safety.  The  second  was  of  Earnscliffe. 

Amidst  the  strange  chaos  of  memory, 
warm,  passionate  words  re-echoed  in  her 
heart — words  spoken  by  his  lips — and  she 
turned  round  timidly,  expecting  still  to  find 
him  at  her  side. 

He  was  there,  extended  lifeless  along  the 
bottom  of  the  boat,  his  hair  lying  in  dark, 
tangled  masses  upon  his  forehead,  his  lips 
apart  and  livid.  Marguerite  sank  by  him  in 
a  moment,  and  unmindful  of  the  storm  which 
raged  around  them — unmindful  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  boatmen,  she  hung  over  Philip, 
chafing  his  hands  with  her  own,  and  looking 
down  into  his  face  with  an  agony  such  as  her 
life  had  never  known  before. 

She  loved  him — she  believed  him  dead ; 
what  was  now  her  own  safety  to  Marguerite  ? 
What  would  it  have  mattered  to  her  if  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  world  had  been  upon 
them? 

It  was  then  that  he  returned  to  conscious- 
ness, and  through  long  after-years  of  sepa- 
ration, Marguerite  never  forgot  the  rapture 
of  that  moment,  when  the  first  deep  breath 
of  life  escaped  his  lips  ! 

The  night  drew  on  apace.  By  the  time 
they  reached  the  shore  they  could  scarcely 
See  an  object  around  them ;  and,  although 
the  storm  had  somewhat  abated,  it  was  a 
long  and  toilsome  ascent  to  the  hut  of  the 
gabarier.  For,  drenched  and  numbed  with 


cold,  Marguerite's  limbs  refused  to  aid  her; 
and  the  path  was  a  difficult  one  for  even 
those  stout  men  accustomed  to  live  among 
the  rocks,  when  it  had  thus  to  be  surmount- 
ed in  perfect  darkness,  with  the  burden  of 
her  form  in  their  arms.  And  Earnscliffe, 
although  his  strong  frame  had  already  par- 
tially recovered  from  the  shock  it  had  sus- 
tained, was  yet  weak  and  unsteady,  and  re- 
quired assistance  in  all  the  more  perilous 
turnings  of  the  path. 

A  bright  peat-fire  was  ready  burning  in 
the  gabarier's  hut.  When  the  storm  was 
first  "threatening,  and  he  could  see  from  his 
look-out  among  the  crags  that  the  stranger 
and  Marguerite  were  yet  lingering  in  the 
caves,  he  had  dispatched  Moser  to  recall 
them  ;  but  the  child,  frightened  at  the  sounds 
of  thunder,  or  from  mere  wilfulness,  had  re- 
turned and  hidden  himself  outside  the  hut, 
not  daring  to  tell  his  father  that  he  had  dis- 
obeyed him.  Nearly  two  hours  afterwards 
one  of  his  brothers  had  discovered  him 
there;  and  the  gabarier's  rage  was  fearful 
when  the  boy  acknowledged  that  he  had  nev- 
er reached  the  young  lady  and  the  English- 
man. He  swore  that,  as  their  lives  had 
been  sacrificed  through  his  own  son,  his 
should  be  also  risked  in  attempting  to  save 
them ;  and  dashed  down  the  rocks  towards 
the  creek  where  his  boat  was  moored,  with 
an  oath,  and  a  set  look  upon  his  face  which 
made  his  wife's  heart  tremble.  Her  own 
brother,  a  neighboring  fisherman,  happened 
to  be  in  the  cabin  at  the  time,  and  she  beg- 
ged him  so  piteously  to  follow  her  husband 
and  help,  that  he  consented  to  do  so,  al- 
though he,  too,  had  a  wife  and  children  de- 
pendent for  their  existence  upon  him. 

As  night  drew  on,  and  the  storm  contin- 
ued, and  still  they  returned  not,  the  sus- 
pense of  Blaisot's  wife  became  agony.  She 
looked  on  her  five  sleeping  children,  and 
knew  that,  if  their  father  perished,  they 
would  cry  for  bread  on  the  morrow,  and  in 
her  heart  she  could  almost  have  cursed  the 
stranger,  whose  idle  curiosity  had  been  the 
cause  of  her  husband's  peril.  But  she  loved 
Marguerite,  who  had  used  to  bring  fruit  and 
flowers  to  a  little  lame  child  she  had  lost, 
the  dearest  of  her  flock;  and  when  she 
thought  of  that,  and  of  her  kind,  familiar 
ways  with  them  all,  she  felt  Blaisot  had  only 
acted  rightly.  She  lit  a  large  peat-fire,  to 
be  in  readiness  for  them,  should  they  return, 
and  strove  to  pray  and  hope  for  the  best. 
But  every  few  minutes  she  would  creep  from 
the  cabin-door,  and  make  her  way  through 
the  blinding  wind  and  mist  to  the  edge  of 
the  precipice,  to  listen,  or  gaze  down  the 
giddy  path,  lit  up  by  the  fitful  gleams  of 
lightning.  At  length  a  long,  shrill  whistle, 
through  one  of  the  lulls  in  the  storm,  made 
her  heart  beat  wildly ;  it  was  renewed,  and 
she  recognised  Blaisot's  whistle.  She  flew 
back  to  the  hut,  falling  over  the  children  in 
her  happiness  5  and  by  the  time  the  party 


92 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


arrived,  the  fire  was  blazing  cheerily  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  few  woolen  clothes  and  blan- 
kets possessed  by  the  fisherman's  family 
were  hanging,  warm  and  dry  for  their  use. 

There  was  a  rude  out-house  belonging  to 
the  cabin,  and  here  Earnseliffe  and  the  two 
men  remained,  while  Blaisot's  wife  removed 
Marguerite's  dripping  clothes,  and  wrapped 
her  up  warmly  in  their  own  woolen  garments, 
with  many  a  kind  word  of  rejoicing  at  her 
safety,  and  apology  for  the  coarseness  of  the 
things  that  the  "  little  queen  "  condescended 
to  put  on. 

She  formed  a  strange  picture  when  Earns- 
eliffe re-entered  ;  her  delicate  figure  swathed 
in  this  uncouth  gear,  seated  close  to  the 
flickering  fire,  and  her  long,  wet  hair  hang- 
ing to  the  ground  over  her  shoulders.  Her 
first  thought  was  for  him. 

"  You  must  require  warmth  and  rest, 
too!"  she  cried.  "Let  Blasiot  take  me 
back  to  Kersaint ;  and  when  I  am  gone,  you 
can  make  yourself  comfortable  here  for 'the 
night.11 

"To  Kersaint!"  replied  Philip.  "It  is 
impossible  for  you  to  think  of  leaving  shel- 
ter again  to-night.  I  will  make  my  way  on 
at  once,  and  tell  your  father  that  you  are 
safe." 

Marguerite  shook  her  head.  "  He  will 
believe  nothing  until  he  sees  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  cannot  delay  another  minute  while  he  is 
in  suspense."  And  turning  to  Blaisot,  she 
addressed  him  in  Breton.  At  first  he  was 
irresolute  in  his  replies ;  but  Marguerite  im- 
plored with  such  earnestness  that  the  wife 
came  quickly  over  to  her  side.  She  thought 
of  her  own  agony  if  one  of  their  hardy  imps 
was  missing  among  the  rocks,  and  felt  for 
the  poor  invalid  father.  So  Blaisot  at  length 
consented  to  start  for  Kersaint  at  once. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  walk,"  said 
Marguerite. 

"  1  should  think  not,"  returned  the  gaba- 
rier.  "Wife,  bring  my  two  strongest  nets." 

They  were  brought,  and  soon  formed  into  a 
kind  of  litter,  upon  which  Marguerite  was 
placed — the  two  men  preparing  to  carry  her 
between  them.  Then  she  turned  to  Earns- 
cliffc,  but  with  downcast  eyes — her  manner 
had  quite  altered  to  him  now — and  bade  him 
good-night. 

"  I  am  coming  with  you,"  he  answered. 
"  I  am  already  warm,  and  nearly  dry,  and 
shall  be  better  for  walking." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  argue  with  him  ; 
and  after  bidding  the,  fisher's  wife  a  kind  fare- 
well, they  again  set  out.  The  storm  was 
now  completely  over ;  only  an  occasional 
cloud  (lilted  across  tin-  deep  blue  above,  and 
the  Stars  were  la^t.  appearing.  Already  the 
angry  roar  of  the  waves  was  softening  into 
their  usual  pleasant  voice;  already  tin-  \vet 
herbage  .vent  a  sweet  fragrance  round,  and 
the  m;Jit  in-eds  were  skimming  through  the 
air.  For  in  so  short  a  time  can  Nature  for- 
get the  wildest  of  her  storms,  and  return  to 


her  own  placid  smile  ;  while  one  half-hour  of 
the  conflict  of  human  passion  leaves  traces 
on  the  heart  of  a  man  that  a  lifetime  is  un- 
able to  efface. 

They  proceeded  in  silence,  Earnseliffe 
lingering  somewhat  behind  the  others,  and 
striving  to  bring  into  clearer  shape  the  vis- 
ions which  still  thronged  bewilderingly  through 
his  brain.  At  first  the  recollection  of  the 
storm — of  the  peril — the.  nearne'ss  to  eterni- 
ty— of  the  rescue  of  his  own  life — was  dom- 
inant. The  bravest  man  who  ever  lived 
must  feel  the  horror  of  sudden  destruction 
when  he  has  escaped  it,  and  then  recoils  from 
Death  as  he  had  never  done  when  standing 
with  him  face  to  face.  And  Earnseliffe 
thanked  God  that  had  not  called  him, 
amidst  the  unatoned  sins  of  his  youth,  into 
His  awful  presence  !  But  soon  other  thoughts 
arose.  The  passion  which  he  had  strength- 
ened in  the  moment  of  coming  death,  was 
only  hushed  for  a  short  space  now ;  and 
Earnseliffe  reflected  long  and  bitterly  upon 
all  into  which  that  day  had  betrayed  him. 
—  He  had  avowed  his  marriage,  and  after- 
wards his  love — his  love  for  Marguerite,  a 
poor,  innocent  child  who  had  been  commit- 
ted to  his  care ;  he  had  spoken  words  to  her 
that  no  woman's  heart  could  ever  forget ;  he 
had  strained  her  to  his  breast  in  the  strong 
embrace  of  death ;  and,  more  than  all,  he 
had  won  from  her  own  lips  the  secret  of  her 
love  for  him — and  a  cold  shadow  fell  across 
Earnseliffe  at  these  thoughts.  He  had  tast- 
ed of  that  fruit  whose  flavor  is  like  no  other ; 
he  had  just  entered  into  that  golden  land 
which  had  been  the  longing  desire  of  his 
life ;  and  now — like  a  mother  who  gazes  up- 
on the  face  of  the  first-born  son  she  had  so 
yearned  for,  but  to  see  him  die — "the  hope 
had  become  darkness  at  its  moment  of  con- 
summation. Marguerite  was  lost  to  him  for 
ever ! 

The  future  lay  before  him  in  its  cold,  dull 
reality.  To-morrow  he  should  disclose  to 
her  father  both  his  marriage  and  his  madness 
in  speaking  to  her  of  love  when  a  certain 
death  seemed  before  them — for,  as  a  man  of 
honor,  he  could  not  shrink  from  this:  Mr. 
St.  John  must  know  exactly  to  what  extent 
his  child  was  compromised  ;  another  day  and 
he  would  have  left  Kersaint  ;  another,  and 
Marguerite  would  be  among  the  things  of  the 
past;  another,  and  he  would  return  to  his 
old  life,  his  old  pleasures,  his  old  associates, 
and  be  airain  as  he  was  before  he  knew  her; 
and  so  on  for  life.  His  thankfulness  for  his 
safety  was  darkened.  In  the  despairing 
thought  that  lie  must  lose  lur,  he  forgot  all 
the  other  prospects  that  life  still  held  forth 
for  him;  he  forgot  his  unfitness  for  death  : 
and,  with  the  impatience  under  disappoint- 
ment which  from  his  boyhood  had  character- 
ised him.  he  clenched  his  hands  together  as 
lie  walked,  au<l  muttered,  "  'Would  ( iod  that 
I  had  <lie<l  wit  h  her  !  " 

And  still  the  sky  grew  brighter,  stars  more 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


clear,  the  freshened  grass  more  sweet ;  and 
Nature  seemed  to  mock  his  real  living  an- 
guish with  the  calmness  of  her  eternally-reviv- 
ing and  unconscious  beauty. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

IT  had  been  a  fearful  evening  for  Mr.  St. 
John.  Although  ignorant  of  the  full  peril 
in  which  his  child  was  placed,  and  striving  to 
hope  that  she  and  Philip  were  under  shelter 
at  the  gabarier's  hut,  his  parental  love  had 
yet  conjured  up  ceaseless  visions  of  evil 
which  no  reason.ng  could  dispel;  and  as  the 
night  wore  on,  and  still  he  received  no  tidings 
oft'Iarguerite,  the  suspense  grew  almost  be- 
yond endurance.  Powerless  to  act,  or  even 
to  learn  the  worst,  the  poor  invalid  could 
only  place  himself  by  the  window,  watching 
the  progress  of  the  storm,  and  praying  that 
each  burst  of  thunder  might  be  the  last, 
while  his  usually  pale  cheek  flushed  deeper 
and  deeper  in  the  fever  of  anxiety,  and  his 
clasped  hands  became  cold  and  clammy  as 
death. 

Manon  would  fain  have  consoled  him,  but 
her  apprehensions  were  to  the  full  as  dark 
as  his  own;  when  she  attempted  to  speak, 
her  voice  was  thick  and  choked,  and  she  sat 
somewhat  apart  from  her  master,  holding  her 
crucifix,  and  praying  to  all  the  saints  for 
Marguerite's  safety.  At  length,  unable, 
like  Mr.  St.  John,  to  bear  the  uncertainty  in 
quiet  anguish,  she  bethought  herself  of  mak- 
ing preparations  for  them  wlien  they  should 
return,  lit  fires  in  the  bed-rooms,  heated 
water,  and  even  laid  out  supper  in  readiness. 
The  action  took  her  from  her  own  thoughts, 
and  she  became  more  hopeful  over  her  em- 
ployment. But  still  the  father  remained  in 
his  old  place,  his  face  turned  towards  the 
darkness  without,  and  his  ear  strained  to  de- 
tect the  earliest  sound  of  his  child's  arrival. 

Suddenly  Bello,  who  throughout  the  eve- 
ning had  been  wandering  about  the  room, 
occasionally  licking  his  master's  hand,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face  in  token  of  his  mute 
sympathy,  gave  one  of  his  low,  joyous 
barks. 

"  She  is  here!"  exclaimed  Manon,  rush- 
ing to  the  door.  "  Bello  would  not  bark  so 
for  a  stranger." 

Mr.  St  John  rose  to  his  feet,  but  he  could 
only  walk  half  across  the  room — the  yet  un- 
certain happiness,  the  longing  to  behold  her 
safe,  seemed  to  overpower  him,  and  render 
his  limbs  powerless.  What  if  it  should  not 
be  Marguerite  ?  what  if  it  should  be  some 
messenger  with  dread  tidings  of  his  child  ? 
In  another  moment,  however,  he  heard  her 
voice  calling,  "  Where  is  he  ?  where  is  he? 
Then  came  the  well-known  sound  of  her 


light  footsteps — she  was  in  the  room — and 
he  held  her  in  his  arms. 

Philip  held  aloof  during  that  rapturous 
monrent  of  meeting,  and  the  boatman,  who 
had  followed  to  the  door  of  the  library  to 
speak  to  Mr.  St.  John,  drew  his  hard  hand 
across  his  eyes  as  he  watched  them,  and 
thought  that  he  was  well  rewarded  for  peril- 
ling his  own  life.  It  was  some  time  before 
either  spoke  ;  then  Marguerite,  in  a  few  hin*- 
ried  words,  told  her  father  how  they  had  been 
surrounded  by  the  tide,  how  Mr..  Earnseliffe 
had  preserved  her  until  his  own  strength  fail- 
ed, and  how  the  gabarier  had  finally  succor- 
ed them. 

"  Where  is  he?"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  for 
the  first  time  remembering  anything  but  her. 
"  Let  me  thank  Mr.  Earnscliffe  for  what  he 
has  done." 

Philip  advanced,  his  heart  reproaching  him 
as  he  received  the  thanks  of  Marguerite's 
father,  and  felt  the  earnest  pressure  of  his 
hand.  Would  he  press  his  hand  to-morrow  ? 

"But  you  are  still  in  your  wet  things," 
continued  Mr.  St.  John;  "Manon  must 
take  you  at  once  to  your  room,  where  you 
will  find  a  fire,  and  dry  clothes.  You,  my 
child,  seem  better  provided  for.  How  did 
you  come  by  this  strange  apparel  ?  " 

Marguerite  told  him  of  their  reception  by 
Blaisot's  wife  ;  and  then  Mr.  St.  John  turned 
to  the  gabarier,  and,  shaking  his  rough  hand, 
thanked  him  warmly  for  his  services.  Nei- 
ther of  the  boatmen,  however,  would  receive 
reward  from  Marguerite's  father.  It  was 
part  of  their  Breton  character  not  to  be  paid 
for  what  they  had  done  by  a  friend.  But 
this  scruple  did  not  extend  to  the  stranger, 
and  they  left  the  house  each  enriched  with  a 
present  from  Earnscliffe  that  would  make 
their  households  wealthy  for  the  remainder 
of  the  year. 

Manon  insisted  upon  carrying  off  her 
young  lady  at  once  to  bed ;  Mr.  St.  John 
was  so  worn  out  by  the  excitement  and  sus- 
pense that  he  had  experienced  that  he  soon 
retired  also ;  and  Earnscliffe  felt  relieved 
that,  for  this  evening  at  least,  there  was  no 
room  for  explanation.  Marguerite's  manner 
with  him  was  so  altered  in  the  last  few  hours, 
that  he  felt  it  would  be  impossible  for  her 
father  to  see  them  together  without  remark- 
ing it.  She  was  constrained  ;  almost  distant ; 
but  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  eyes  fell  to 
the  ground  if  they  met  his — the  very  sound 
of  his  voice  made  her  change  color.  And 
Earnscliffe  felt  that  the  scene  among  the 
caves,  and  the  subsequent  terror  for  his  life, 
had  deepened  all  her  former  love  into  pas- 
sion— dawning,  indistinct  as  yet,  but  which 
would  grow  with  every  hour  of  further  in- 
tercourse. Certainly  she  knew  he  was  mar- 
ried, but  what  was  that  to  her — so  ignorant 
of  the  world  and  its  opinions  ?  how  frail  a 
barrier  to  stay  in  its  course  the  master  pas- 
sion of  our  nature  !  And  Mr.  St.  John  would 


94 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


see  this,  and  from  EarnscliftVs  lips  must 
learn  that  ho  was  married  ;  that,  as  a  married 
man,  lie  had  declared  his  love,  and,  far  worse, 
won  the  guileless  heart  of  his  child !  He 
took  a  hasty  supper  alone,  and  then  retired 
to  rest,  but  he  could  not  sleep  for  hours. 
Worn  out  though  he  was  by  bodily  fatigue, 
the  emotions  of  the  mind  overcame  all  incli- 
nation for  sleep ;  and  he  dreaded  the  morrow 
and  the  disclosures  it  might  bring,  more  than 
he  had  done  the  waves  which  had  threatened 
him  with  instant  death.  In  persons  of  his 
temperament,  the  moral  is  seldom  equal  to 
the  physical  courage  ;  and  the  idea  of  forfeit- 
ing forever  the  good  opinion  of  Mr.  St.  John 
was  a  pa*n  to  Earnscliffe  of  which  those  who 
knew  him  as  a  mere  man  of  the  world  could 
not  have  conceived  the  extent — it  even  out- 
balanced, for  a  time,  his  grief  for  the  ap- 
proaching parting  with  Marguerite  which  he 
felt  was  inevitable. 

At  length,  towards  morning,  he  fell  into  an 
uneasy  sleep,  from  which  he  awoke  with  a 
start  when  the  early  sunlight  was  streaming 
through  the  window.  He  had  been  dream- 
ing over  again  the  perils  of  the  past  day — 
the  booming*thunders,  the  eddying  waters; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that,  while  he  escaped 
himself,  he  had  left  Marguerite  to  perish  ; 
and  that  Mr.  St.  John,  pale  and  ghastly,  now 
stood  beside  his  bed,  demanding  his  child, 
and  saying,  in  a  hollow  tone,  "You  have 
lost  her — lost  her — body  and  soul ! " 

The  cold  sweat  stood  upon  his  forehead 
when  be  awoke,  and  he  rose  at  once,  glad  to 
exchange  the  dreams  of  the  night  for  the  day 
realities,  painful  though  they  might  be.  He 
opened  the  window,  and  the  sweet  air  blew 
softly  into  the  room.  Everything  out  of  doors 
was  radiant  in  dew  and  sunshine,  the  sea 
once  more  unrippled ;  and  Philip  was  re- 
minded of  that  first  morning  after  his  arrival 
at  Kcrsaint,  when  he  had  listened  to  Mar- 
guerite's young  voice  under  his  window. 
But  now  the  tender  green  had  become 
abounding  verdure,  and  the  scarcely  open 
buds  were  full  and  gorgeous  flowers".  Like 
the  progress  of  their  own  love,  the  changing, 
uncertain  spring  had  deepened  into  the  glow- 
ing maturity  of  summer.  After  IK-  had  dress- 
ed, he  remained  long  standing  at  the  open 
window,  and  in  deep  thought,  when  sudden- 
ly a  fluttering  knock  came  at  the  bedroom 
door.  Somewhat  startled,  he  went  to  open 
it,  and  saw  Marguerite,  in  a  white  morning 
wrapper,  and  her  face  extremely  pale.  lie 
knew  that  her  lather  was  worse. 

'•  He  is  very  ill,11  she  said,  with  trembling 
lips.  "  He  has  had  a  violent  fit  of  cough- 
ing, and  broken  a  blood-vessel.  What  am  1 
todoP" 

Philip  followed  her  without  speaking  a 
word,  and  at.  the  door  of  Mr.  St..John'>  room 
lliev  were  met  l,y  Million.  Her  feature-  had 
an  awe-stni<-i,  •  \|ire.->i..ii.  but  still  she  had 
not  lost  her  presence  of  mind. 

you  .start  immediately  for  N f 


monsieur,"  she  whispered  to  Philip,  "and 
inquire  for  Dr.  Thibault?  Bruno  is  not 
here,  or  I  should  have  sent  him  at  once. 
And  make  the  doctor  return  with  you — there 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

"  When  was  he  taken  ill  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour  ago  the  bell  leading  into 
my  room  was  rung  suddenly,  and  on  coming 
to  my  master,  I  found  him  speechless,  and 
his  pillows  deluged  with  blood.  It  was 
the  excitement  of  yesterday." 

Philip  glanced  through  the  open  door,  and 
saw  Mr.  St.  John,  livid  and  exhausted,  sup- 
ported upon  pillows,  with  his  eyes  closed ; 
and  Marguerite,  who  was  again  at  his  side, 
wiping  the  dark  streaks  tenderly  from  his 
lips,  her  face  perfectly  white,  and  her  large 
eyes  dilated  with  terror.  He  started,  almost 
with  a  feeling  of  guilt,  at  the  sight ;  and, 
after  some  more  minute  directions  from 
Manon,  stole  quietly  down-stairs,  and  was 

soon  in  the  open  air  on  his  way  to  N . 

He  forgot  the  weakness  of  his  own  still  ex- 
hausted frame  and  stiffened  limbs  in  his  self- 
accusing  wish  to  be  of  service  to  the  man 
whom  he  thought  that  he  had  injured ;  and 
in  a  wonderful  short  time  had  reached  the 
town  and  found  out  Dr.  Thibault's  house. 

The  doctor  had  attended  Mr.  St.  John 
during  the  preceding  autumn,  and  he  listened 
to  Philip's  account  of  the  present  seizure 
with  an  expression  of  grave  concern,  then  he 
shook  his  head. 

"  Surely  you  do  not  mean  that  there  is  no 
hope?  "  Philip  exclaimed,  hastily. 

"  I  cannot,  of  course,  pronounce  till  I 
have  seen  him  ;  but  I  have  little  hopes  my- 
self. He  is  too  feeble  to  bear  up  against 
any  loss  of  blood ;  and,  from  your  account, 
one  of  the  larger  vessels  must  be  ruptured. 
I  have  long  known  that  any  sudden  emotion 
might  be  fatal  to  him  in  his  precarious  stale.1' 

The  doctor  prepared  some  medicines,  and 
started  at  once  on  his  pony  for  Kersaiut, 
leaving  Philip  to  follow  on  foot.  He  ran  the 
greater  part  of  the  distance  ;  and,  when  he 
reached  the  manoir,  Thibault,  was  still  in  the 
sick  room,  and  Marguerite — too  agonised  for 
tears — was  crouching  outside  her  father's 
door,  waiting  to  hear  his  verdict  as  he  came 
out. 

She  looked  up  at  Philip  when  she  heard 
his  step,  but  her  expression  did  not  change. 
He  took  her  hand,  and  the  cold,  relaxed  lin- 
gers lay  lifeless  in  his  own.  This  new,  great 
sorrow  had  swallowed  up  everv  other  feeling, 
and  now  that  her  father  was'  in  danger,  he 
seemed  again  as  entirely  her  whole  world  as 
in  the  time  bed. re  she  e\er  knew  Philip 
KarnselifVe.  The  minute.*  dragged  on  like 
hours  while  they  waited  thus.  At  length 
then-  was  a  subdued  movement  in  the  sick 
chamber,  and  then  the  doctor  noiselessly 
opened  the  door  ami  came  out.  In  his  sol- 
emn face  Karnscliffc  read  all  — Mr.  St.  .John 
wa>  'lying. 

M-rite  sjirang  to  her  feet,  and 


PHILIP  EAKNTSCLIFFE. 


95 


the  doctor's  hands,  but  she.  could  not  speak ; 
something  in  his  expression  made  the  words 
choke  wildly  in  her  throat. 

"Tell  ine,"  she  tried  to  articulate— "  tell 
me " 

"My  child!"  said  Ttrbault,  kindly  (he, 
too,  had  a  little  daughter),  "  God  is  good, 
arid  you  must  pray  to  him." 

She  knew  his  meaning,  but  strove  not  to 
believe  it.  "  What  must  I  do?  "  she  cried, 
her  speech  returning  in  her  terror — "  what 
must  I  do  to  save  him? — tell  me,  doctor, 
and  I  will  bless  you,  and  pray  for  you  all 
my  life.  Oh,  save  him,  save  him  !  " 

His  eyes  softened !  but  he  was  a  plain 
countryman,  and  he  never  adopted  the  cruel 
system  of  saying  "  Hope,"  when  there  is  no 
hope.  "My  child,"  he  answered,  turning 
away  his  face,  "  your  father  must  be  kept 
perfectly  quiet,  the  slightest  agitation  might 
terminate  his  life  at  once.  If  you  remain 
with  him,  you  must  command  your  own  feel- 
ings, and  not  permit  him  to  speak ;  give  him 
every  two  hours  a  spoonfal  of  the  medicine 
I  have  left,  and  keep  his  chamber  as  cool  as 
possible.  I  will  return  in  the  afternoon  to 
see  how  he  is  going  on." 

She  asked  no  more  questions.  She  had 
now  something  to  do  for  her  father,  to  watch 
over  him,  to  restrain  her  own  sorrow ;  and, 
without  a  word,  she  turned  away,  and  re-en- 
tered the  room. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  monsieur?"  said 
Thibault,  when  she  was  gone. 

Philip  led  the  way  down-stairs,  and  they 
entered  the  library,  whose  air  of  cheerful 
home  comfort  seemed  like  a  mockery  now. 
The  doctor  closed  the  door  softly,  seated 
himself  in  Mr.  St.  John's  easy  chair,  and 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  He  was  a  good  and 
kind-hearted  man  naturally  ;  but  he  thought 
it  part  of  his  professional  duty  to  keep  up  a 
dignified  calmness  which  he  did  not  feel  on 
these  occasions. 

"  Is  he  dying?  "  said  Philip,  abruptly. 

"Monsieur!"  returned  the  doctor,  start- 
led by  his  tone,  and  the  strange  look  in  his 
face. 

He  repeated  the  question.  Thibault 
paused. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  slowly,  ",I  may  as 
well  tell  you  the  truth  at  once.  My  patient 
is  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion ;  indeed,  I 
may  say,  dying.  His  frame  is  already  debil- 
itated, and  he  has  broken  one  of  the  largest 
vessels  of  the  lungs.  All  the  art  in  Europe 
could  not  save  him." 

"Will  he  last  long?" 

"That  is  uncertain:  I  really  could  not 
give  an  exact  opinion.  These  things  vary  so 
much.  When  the  blood  proceeds  from  one 
of  the  greater  arteries,  you  see,  the  chances 
are " 

But  Philip  rose,  and  paced  impatiently  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  the  doctor  wa's  si- 
lenced in  his  intended  disquisition. 

"  What  is  to  become   of  her?  "    broke 


from  Earnscliflfe  at  last ;  and,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself.  "  Who  is  to  take  her  ?  " 

All  the  doctor's  silly  pomposity  vanished 
in  a  moment. 

"  Ah,  monsieur!"  he  cried,  "  it  is  I  who 
was  going  to  ask  the  question.  They  have 
no  friends  here,  and  all  the  French  relations 
of  the  mother's  side,  I  am  told,  are  dead. 
But  as  you  are  a  friend,  and  a  compatriot, 
I  thought  you  would  know  what  relations 
they  had  in  England ;  or  perhaps  monsieur 
himself  is  connected  with  the  family?  " 

Philip  did  not  hear  the  question.  He  was 
now  standing  at  the  window,  gazing  out  into 
the  garden,  without  knowing  what  he  saw. 
He  felt  that  Marguerite,  orphaned  and  alone, 
would  be  thrown  as  it  were  upon  his  protec- 
tion ;  and  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
weakness  made  him  shrink  from  the  trust. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  turning  round  sudden- 
ly, "  do  you  believe  that  Mr.  St.  John  is  in 
immediate  danger?  " 

"  As  immediate  as  a  man  can  be  to  be  alive 
at  all.  1  do  not  expect  him  to  live  another 
forty-eight  hours — his  strength  is  ebbing 
fast';  and,  even  if  he  should  have  no  return 
of  the  cough,  he  will  die." 

There  was  another  silence:  then  Earns- 
cliffe  resumed — "  You  are  married,  sir,  I  be- 
lieve?" 

"  I  am.  I  have  a  daughter  rather  younger 
than  Mademoiselle  St.  John.  Would  you 
think  it  well  for  my  wife  to  come  over 
here  ?  " 

Philip  knew  enough  of  Marguerite's  nature 
to  feel  that  she  would  rather  have  no  strang- 
ger  to  comfort  her  in  her  affliction,  and  re- 
plied that  "  he  had  not  exactly  meant  that; 
but  that  Doctor  Thibault  being  a  married 
man,  he  would  be  able  to  afford  Marguerite  the 
protection  she  required,  until  some  of  her 
own  relations  were  written  to ;  for  himself, 
he  regretted  that  it  would  be  necessary  for 

him  at  once  to  leave  Kersaint,  as "  Here 

he  hesitated,  and  Doctor  Thibault  gathered 
that  the  young  Englishman  wished  as  much 
as  possible  to  be  rid  of  any  responsibility  in 
the  matter.  And,  considering  how  long  he  had 
been  a  guest  of  the  dying  man,  the  inference 
did  not  give  the  worthy  doctor  too  high  an 
opinion  of  English  gratitude.  He  little 
thought  the  pain  his  own  resolution  cost  to 
Earnscliffe. 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  the  address  of 
a  cousin  of  Mr.  St.  John's  in  London  ? " 
Philip  inquired.  "  They  have  frequently 
spoken  of  him  to  me,  but  I  have  forgotten 
even  his  name." 

The  doctor  was  also  ignorant  upon  this 
point ;  they  agreed,  howerer,  that  Earns- 
cliffe should  write  a  letter  at  once,  saying 
that  Mr.  St.  John  was  dying,  and  urging 
some  of  the  relations  to  come  over  to  his 
daughter  immediately,  and  tliat  he  should 
learn  the  address  from  Marguerite  later  in 
the  day.  The  doctor,  having  promised  to 
all  in  the  afternoon,  then  took  his  leave. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


•'  A  true  Englishman  !  "  he  soliloquised, 
as  he  trotted  quickly  home  on  his  pony. 
"  With  his  haughty  manners,  and  his  cold 
heart,  no  more  warmed  by  that  girl's  loveli- 
ness than  if  he  were  an  iceberg.  He  must 
leave  the  house,  forsooth  !  in  his  sanctity  of 
virtue,  the  moment  the  father  is  dead,* and 
hand  over  the  poor  .child  to  my  respectable 
protection  !  Yet  there  is  no  lack  of  fire  in 
his  face,  either — mais  Us  sont  tons  comme  celh 
— ces  Anglais — bait !  " 

Earnscliffe  was  left  alone  for  some  hours. 
He  wrote  the  letter,  and  afterwards  remained 
unoccupied,  standing  at  the  library  window. 
The  actual  presence  of  death  had  never  so 
weighed  upon  him  before.  To  meet  it  in 
peril  and  excitement  was  nothing,  compared 
with  this  slow,  lingering  approach  to  eternity 
which  one  inmate  of  the  house  was  now 
treading  alone.  And,  besides  this,  a  painful 
feeling  of  self-accusation  was  ever  at  Earns- 
cliffe's  heart,  which  made  him  shrink  from 
approaching  the  dying  man.  Not  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  had  in  some  measure  been 
the  cause  of  the  previous  day's  catastrophe 
— in  that  he  was  innocent  of  "intention — but 
the  feeling  th;<t  he  had  betrayed  a  solemn 
trust;  and  that  to  the  last  he*  should  meet 
Mr.  St.  John's  eye  in  an  acted  character. 
Slight  looks  and  words  were  recalled  which 
convinced  him  that  her  father  had  not  been 
unmindful  of  his  preference  for  Marguerite, 
nor  unwilling  that  it  should  be  so ;  and  he 
shuddered  at  the  idea  of  him  dying  in  the 
belief  that  his  child  might  soon  have  another 
protector. 

"  And  all  this  would  never  have  been  had 
I  acted  honestly  from  the  commencement !  " 
was  Philip's  bitter  thought. 

The  hours  passed  by,  and  towards  noon 
Marguerite  entered  the* library.  She  looked 
quite  changed,  and  her  childish  face  had  be- 
come like  that  of  a  woman ;  but  she  was 
calm,  and  did  not  weep. 

"  IIov;  is  you  father,  Marguerite?  " 

"  Ha  is  asleep;  and  Manon  wished  me  to 
leave  him,  and  take  food,  that  I  might  be 
more  fit  for  watching  afterwards.  Have  you 
breakfasted?" 

"Oh!  do  not  think  of  me;  I  require 
nothing." 

"  Manon  made  some  coffee  an  hour  ago; 
I  will  bring  it  to  you." 

She  left  the  room  with  the  same  unnatural 
composure,  and  shortly  returned  with  a  tray 
and  some  breakfast.  Philip  poured  her  out 
a  cup  of  coll'ce,  and  she  drank  it,  and  then 
strove  to  eat ;  but  she  could  not  swallow  a 
morsel. 

•*  You  eat,"  she  said.     "  I  am  not  hun- 

gn£ 

I'lulip  took  some  coffee,  and  then  resumed 
his  place  at  tin-  window.  Marguerite  seated 
herself  on  a  low  footstool,  and  laid  her  head 
wearily  against  tin-  arm  of  her  father's  chair; 
itill,  she  never  wept — she  was  only  stunned 


and  bewildered  as  yet — the  agony  of  grief 
was  to  come. 

"  Will  you  not  come  to  the  open  window, 
my  poor  child  ?  The  air  will  refresh  you." 

Her  lips  trembled  a  little  at  his  expression 
— it  recalled  her  father — but  she  only  hid 
her  face.  *«  No ;  I  am  better  here,"  she  an- 
swered. « 

Then  Philip  approached,  and  seated  him- 
self beside  her.  "I  have  been  writing  a 
letter,"  he  said,  gently,  «« which  I  should  like 
to  send  by  to-day's  post.  It  is  to  your  fath- 
er's cousin,  telling  him  of  his  illness,  and 
asking  him  to  come  to  you.  Will  you  give 
me  his  address  ?  " 

An  indescribable  look  of  anguish  crossed 
her  face  at  his  words.  She  understood  w hy- 
lic had  written,  and  it  realised  her  position 
to  her;  already  she  was  being  given  over  to 
strangers ! 

"Ah,  Mr.  Earnscliffe  ! "  she  cried,  wild- 
ly. "  Do  not  write  to  him  ;  they  will  take 
me  from  Kersaint,  where  we  have  always 
been  together,  and  I  shall  not  be  near  him 

when — when "   "  he  is  dead,"  she  would 

have  added,  but  she  could  not  utter  that 
word.  She  raised  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
where  the  old  sharp  pain  had  arisen,  and 
looked  piteously  at  Earnscliffe.  "  Do  not 
send  it  yet ;  wait  another  day,  until  we  know 
all.  God  is  merciful !  He  cannot  leave  me 
so  utterly  alone.  Oh,  Mr.  Earnscliffe  !  He 
cannot  take  my  father  from  me  yet !  I  have 
no  one  in  the  world  but  him.''  After  a 
pause  she  continued — "  I  should  like  to  hear 
all  the  doctor  said  to  you — his  exact  opin- 
ion, word  for  word." 

With  averted  face,  Earnscliffe  tried  to 
break  the  dread  truth.  He  did  not  deceive 
her ;  he  rather  strove  to  soften  her  grief,  and 
make  her  weep ;  and,  at  length,  he  succeed- 
ed. Speaking  of  her  father,  he  had  dwelt 
much  upon  the  excellence  and  beauty  of  his 
character,  and  of  his  fitness  for  death ;  and 
then  added,  when  she  turned  away  almost 
impatiently  from  that  terrible  word — death — 

"  But  think  of  his  gain,  Marguerite — from 
a  life  of  constant  pain  and  sickness  to  the 
glorious  life  of  eternity,  and  the  joy  of  again 
beholding  your  mother." 

Then  the  tears  were  unloosed  ;  and  she 
wept  long  and  passionately,  as  a  child  of  her 
age  should  weep,  in  natural  sorrow. 

"  I  am  selfish  to  grieve  so  for  myself,"  she 
said,  at  length  ;  "but  you  can  never  know 
all  that  my  lather  has  been  to  me.  What 
love  can  I  ever  find  like  his? — so  forgiving 
to  all  my  faults — so  gentle;  he  ha*  never 
once  been  angry  with  me  in  my  whole,  life, 
and  I  have  often  been  forgetful  of  him. 
Only  yesterday — the  last  day,  Mr.  Karn.s- 
clin'e — I  was  away  from  him  so  man\  hours, 
and  thinking  of  my  own  happiness,  while  his 
aimety  for  me  has  caused  this  dreadful  ill- 
She  could  get  no  further  for  her  tears* 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


97 


and  it  was  a  difficult  task  for  Philip  to  com- 
fort her,  with  so  much  tenderness  in  his 
heart  to  be  obliged  to  content  himself  with 
the  usual  common-places  of  condolence  !  He 
began  speaking  again  of  her  relations  in 
England. 

44 1  know  my  father's  wishes,"  she  replied, 
mournfully.  4'  Last  autumn,  when  he  was 
BO  ill,  he  told  me  1  was  to  live  with  my  cous- 
in, in  London.  And  [  have  never  seen  any 
of  them ;  they  will  be  perfect  strangers  to 
me.  I  would  much  rather  remain  at  Ker- 
samt,  alone  with  Manon  in  these  rooms, 
•where  I  have  spent  all  my  happy  life  with 
my  father." 

44  But  you  will  act  as  lie  thought  best, 
Marguerite  ?  " 

44  Yes;  and,  after  all,  it  will  not  matter 
much.  What  will  life  be  anywhere,  with  no 
one  to  love  or  to  care  for  me  ?  " 

Had  she  so  soon  forgotten  her  love  for 
Philip?  or  was  there,  mingled  with  her  pas- 
sionate grief  for  her  father,  a  recollection 
that  that  too  was  over — a  thing  that  could 
never  be  ? 

44  Think  of  my   life.    Marguerite!     How 
few  have  any  to  really  love  them  !     But  yon 
are  young,  and  may  form  new  attachments.1' 
She  turned,  and  looked  at  him  very  full. 
44  Do  you  believe   what  you  are   saying, 
Mr.  Earnscliffe?" 

He  hesitated.     *4 1  did  not  mean  that   a 

parent's  place  can  ever  be  filled  in  a  child's 

heart ;  but  there  are  ties  even  more  near ! 

44  Philip." 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  so,  child — Jam  noth- 
ing to  you.  When  we  separate  it  will  be 
for  ever,  and  your  only  thoughts  of  me  must 
be  pitying  ones." 

He  tried  to  give  his  voice  a  firm  tone,  but 
it  betrayed  him  in  its  quivering  accents,  and 
the  hand  which  held  hers  grew  very  cold. 

44  Philip  !  "  she  replied,  with  a  grave  com- 
posure, that  contrasted  strangely  with  her 
usual  manner,  "you  think  me  a  child,  you 
treat  me  as  such,  and  I  know  that  you  mis- 
judge me.  You  say  rightly,  that  none  can 
ever  supply  my  father's  place — none  ever 
will.  I  may  like  my  relations,  but  nothing 
more.  Even  if — I — had  married  you  " — she 
brought  these  words  out  with  difficulty,  yet 
still  with  no  change  of  color — '4  I  should 
never  have  forgotten  him  ;  and  it  is  not  like- 
ly now,  when  I  shall  be  for  ever  alone  in  the 
world.  But  why  should  you  tell  me  that  all 
I  said  to  you  yesterday  was  nothing?  that  1 
shall  easily  form  new  attachments?  Mr 
Earnscliffe,  my  father  is  dying,  I  speak  to 
you  solemnly,  and  in  my  great  sorrow,  and 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it  now — I  shall  nev- 
er forget  you.  It  is  not  in  my  nature  to 
love  many  times,  and  when  I  do  love,  it  wil 
go  with  me  to  my  grave.  You  are  married 
you  have  told  me  that  I  can  be  nothing  to 
you,  but  you  have  made  me  love  you — you 
have  made  me  confess  it,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  you ! " 


She  neither  blushed  nor  trembled ;  but 
poke  all  this  in  a  fixed,  gloomy  tone,  as 
hough  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
ler  own  assertion.  Philip  scarce  trusted 
limself  to  reply.  Even  as  she  reassured  him 
of  her  love,  something  in  her  manner  madu 
lim  feel  how  entirely  they  were  divided  ;  and 
:he  words,  44  you  have  made  me  love  you — • 
>rou  have  made  me  confess  it,"  sounded  like 

fresh  condemnation  to  him.  By  what 
right  had  he  embittered  this  fair  young  life, 
over  which  the  hand  of  God  was  laid  so 
leavily?  How  could  he  attempt  to  offer 
consolation  ? 

44  Marguerite,  can  you  forgive  me  ?  "  he 
murmured. 

44  Forgive  you?"  she  answered,  gently; 
4  you  have  done  no  wrong ;  like  me,  you 
are  sorrowful  and  alone — my  poor  Philip. 
It  will  be  my  fate,  like  my  mother's,  to  u*e 
young,  and  not  be  very  happy  in  my  life — 
but  it  is  through  no  fault  of  yours.  And 
now,"  she  added,  rising  to  her  feet,  44 1  will 
return  to  my  father,  I  will  leave  him  no 
more." 

44  And  I  ?  "  hesitated  Earnscliffe.  "  Will 
vou  not  let  me  be  with  you  in  your  watch- 
ing?" 

'*•  Oh,  yes  !  you  may  come  towards  even- 
ing, for  Manon  then  willVequire  a  little  rest, 
but  now  I  would  rather  be  alone." 

She  left  him,  and  an  hour  or  two  after- 
wards the  doctor  arrived.  He  found  his  pa- 
tient quiet,  without  pain,  and  composed,  but 
sinking  fast;  he  showed  no  inclination  to 
speak ;  and  as  long  as  Marguerite  was  by 
him,  and  her  arm  round  his  neck,  looked 
happy. 

44  He  may  last  till  to-morrow,"  said  Thi- 
bault  to  Philip,  when  he  came  down  agai.-., 
44  not  longer.  I  shall  call  in  very  early  in 
the  morning,  however,  but  it  will  be  to  see 
the  child.  I  can  do  no  more  for  him." 

Philip  told  him  of  Marguerite's  wish-,, 
about  the  letter,  and  they  agreed  that  one 
day's  delay  could  make  no  difference.  She 
would  have  no  reason  for  not  sending  it  on, 
the  morrow. 

" 1  do  not  fear  any  further  rupture  on  the 
lungs,"  added  the  doctor.  "So,  if  he, 
shows  a  disposition  to  talk  to  his  child,  it 
need  not  be  checked.  Poor  little  creature  ! 
she  will  hear  few  words  enough  from  him 
again  in  this  world." 

And  Philip  wrung  the  doctor's  hand  when 
he  spoke  so  feelingly  of  Marguerite,  in  a  man- 
ner that  made  him  think  he  had  somewhat 
misjudged  the  cold  young  Englishman  that 
morning. 

The  day  wore  away  without  much  change 
in  the  sufferer.  Towards  night,  however, 
he  spoke  morr,  and  his  mind  began  evident- 
ly to  wander.  His  voice  was  soft  and  low  as 
ever,  his  eye  calm — but  his  ideas  were  be- 
coming confused.  At  one  time  he  thought  he 
was  speaking  to  his  wife — that  she  was  dy- 
ing, and  he  watching  over  her;  then  he  ro- 


98 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


turred  abruptly  to  his  own  state — to  his  anx- 
iety of  the  previous  day— to  Marguerite,  and 
who  would  take  her  when  he  was  gone  ? — and 
then  alluded  to  Earnsclitfe,  in  a  manner  con- 
nected with  her,  which  sent  a  thrill  through 
the  conscious  heart  of  one  of  the  listeners. 
Manon  had  gone  to  rest  herself,  that  she 
might  be  better  able  for  her  duties  when  they 
were  required ;  and  Philip  and  Marguerite 
watched  together  during  the  early  part  of 
the  night.  She  would  not  leave  her  father 
for  a  minute ;  she  felt  no  fatigue  in  her  con- 
strained position  and  her  hand  never  wearied 
of  lifting  the  cooling  draught  to  his  lips,  or 
wiping  the  fast-gathering  damps  upon  his 
forehead.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  have  ac- 
quired the  strength  and  composure  of  a  wo- 
man. But  Philip  knew  that  the  last  scene 
would  be  a  different  one  to  this,  and  trem- 
bled for  her  powers  of  enduring  it. 

About  two  oY'lock  Mr.  St.  John  fell 
asleep,  and  remained  so  for  more  than  an 
hour.  When  he  woke  the  watchers  were 
still  in  their  place ;  but  Manon  had  return- 
ed, and  forced  Marguerite  to  swallow  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  change  her  position,  which  she 
had  not  hitherto  done  for  fear  of  disturbing 
her  father.  The  grey  light  of  early  morn- 
ing was  already  stealing  through  the  closed 
curtains,  giving  a  ghastly  hue  to  the  lamp  by 
the  bed-side,  and  revealing  the  ashy  features 
of  the  dying  man,  and  those,  scarcely  more 
life-like  of  his  child.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
bed,  perfectly  motionless,  stood  the  old 
hound.  They  had  vainly  attempted  to  keep 
him  from  the  room  the  previous  day  ;  but,  as 
he  was  so  still  and  silent,  at,  length  permit- 
ted him  to  remain.  His  great  brown  eyes 
never  turned  from  his  master's  face  for  one 
second;  and  their  expression  of  wistful  sor- 
row and  knowledge  of  the  truth,  was  almost 
human  in  its  intensity.  When  Mr.  St.  John 
woke  he  seemed  quite  calm  and  conscious ; 
and  his  voice  had  resumed  so  much  of  its  old 
fctrcngth  that  Marguerite1s  heart  beat  with  a 
wild  hope  that  he  was  better.  But  Manon's 
face  grew  more  solemn,  and  she  glanced  at 
Philip. 

"  Still  beside  me,  my  little  one  ;  you  must 
be  worn  out !  " 

"No,  lather;  I  am  not  tired.  I  was  so 
glad  to  see  you  sleep." 

"  It  has  restored  me.  darling.  I  can  tell 
you  all  I  wish  now.  Put  your  arm  round 
me — so.  Child — I  am  leaving  you.111 

"No — no,  father!  You  must  nqt  leave 
me — I  have  no  one  but  you.  Do  not  leave 
ine  in  this  gn-;it  world  alone,  father!  " 

"  Where  is  Mr.  K.irnsrlilK-r' 

Philip  advanced  to  the  l>ed,  his  face  blood 
.i  the  thought  of  what  the  dying  man 
might  say. 

••  I  am  here,  sir." 

"  (,iv<-  mi-  your  hand.  Why,  it  is  colder 
than  mine — and  clammy.  Ah;  you  led  lor 
my  child.  I  have  not  KDOWn  you  long;  l>ut 
1  uui  sure  that  you  have  u  warm  heart  and 


high  principles.  Will  you  be  her  friend  when 
I  am  gone?  She  is  worthy  of  you.1' 

These  words,  and  the  fervent  clasp  smote 
Philip  to  the  quick. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  he  faltered — '•  I  will 
endeavor  to  perform " 

Mr.  St.  John  smiled  faintly.  He  already 
thought  that  Philip  loved  his  daughter ;  and 
his  deep  emotion — his  hesitating  accents — 
now  confirmed  this  belief. 

"I  can  die  contented,"  he  said,  softly; 
a  happy  expression  stealing  over  his  face. 
"Now,  little  one,  all  I  have  to  say  must  be 
to  you.  Nay,"  he  interrupted  himself,  as  his 
eye  fell  upon  another  weeping  figure,  «•  Ma- 
non first." 

Manon  took  his  weak,  out-stretched  hand* 
and  kissed  it  with  the  reverence  she  might 
have  shown  to  a  saint. 

"  Oh,  master!  forgive  me  all  my  faults," 
she  said,  through  her  fast-falling  tears. 

"  You  have  had  none,  poor  Manon  !  You 
were  faithful  to  my  Lilla ;  you  have  been 
faithful  to  her  child  and  to  me.  God  bless 
you,  my  friend,  and  reward  you  as  you  de- 
serve." 

Then  he  turned  to  Marguerite.  She  bent 
down  over  him,  and  he  spoke  in  low,  loving 
whispers,  so  that-only  she  could  hear  ;  while 
Philip  turned  aside,  not  to  intrude,  even  by 
looking,  on  the  last  earthly  communion  of 
these  two  beings,  who  had  so  long  been  all 
in  all  to  each  other.  At  length  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation from  Manon  made  him  look  round, 
and  he  saw  a  change  on  Mr.  St.  John's  lace. 
His  color  had  returned,  and  his  eyes  were 
brighter. 

*'  Draw  aside  the  curtains  !  "  he  exclaim- 
ed. "  Open  the  window,  and  let  me  feel 
the  air  once  more;." 

Manon  obeyed  him  ;  and  the  fresh  wind, 
laden  with  a  thousand  early  scents,  stole  in, 
while  a  golden  beam  from  the  rising  sun  fell 
full  across  the  bed. 

*•  She  died  at  this  hour,"  murmured  Mr. 
St.  John;  "  and  I  am  going  to  her — God 
remember  thee,  my  child  ! ' 

"Father,  do  not  leave  me!"  cried  Mar- 
guerite, as  his  clasp  slightly  relaxed,  and  all 
the  reality  of  death  overwhelmed  her. 
"  Father,  stav  with  vour  little  one — father — 
father!" 

But  the  ear  which  had  never  turned  from 
her  faintest  wish  before,  was  becoming  dull, 
even  to  her  voice  ;  and,  though  he  yet  strove 
to  answer,  his  lips  moved  only  with  an  inar- 
ticulate sound. 

"  And  he  dies  without  the  sacraments?" 
said  .Manon. 

Poor  Manon!  She  knew  not  that  the 
single  ray  of  God's  sunshine  brought  more 
of  his  pr'eseiice  about,  the  dying  man  than 
all  the  priests  in  (.'hri.-teudom  could  have 
done. 

"  Kiss  me,  darling— once  more." 

These  were  \n^  last  words.  As  her  lips  still 
pressed  upon  his  check,  his  eyes  b 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


99 


strangely — then  fixed ;  and,  without  another 
sound,  he  expired. 

Marguerite  started  back  in  sudden  terror, 
then  looked  fearfully  round  at  her  compan- 
ions, then  at  her  father's  face.  She  seized 
his  hand,  it  was  already  cold  and  damp,  the 
chiselled  lips  had  fallen  ;  and  with  a  cry — so 
long,  so  intense  in  its  anguish,  that  neither 
of  the  hearers  ever  forgot  the  sound  again — 
she  sank  heavily  and  senseless  upon  the 
ground. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AT  breakfast  in  his  own  house,  in  a  quiet, 
dingy  street  neighboring  on  Russel  Square, 
Mr.  Danby  sat  alone  at  his  morning  meal, 
his  wife  and  step-daughter  being  persons  too 
long  accustomed  to  fashionable  life  to  conform 
to  his  early  habits. 

The  room  was  dark,  the  furniture  old.  It 
was  the  room  in  the  house  especially  dedica- 
ted to  Mr.  Danby,  and  where  no  visitors 
were  ever  admitted ;  consequently,  it  was 
not  thought  necessary  to  introduce  any  of 
the  light  and  modern  furniture  which,  during 
the  last  few  years,  had  found  its  way  into 
most  of  the  other  rooms,  and  Mr  Danby 
rather  liked  this  arrangement  than  otherwise. 
Perhaps  it  allowed  him  occasionally  to  dream 
— when  glancing  at  the  stiff-backed  chairs 
and  horse-hair  sofa — that  he  was  still  in  his 
former  life  of  tranquil  widowhood  ;  while  the 
fanciful  patterns  and  Frenchified  ornaments 
in  the  drawing-room  perpetually  reminded 
him  of  his  fanciful  wife  and  her  Frenchified 
daughter.  However  this  might  be,  he  al- 
ways looked  upon  his  breakfast,  as  the  hap- 
piest meal  of  the  twenty-four  hours  ;  and  on 
the  morning  in  question — about  four  days 
after  the  event  described  in  the  last  chapter 
— was  eating  his  toast,  and  drinking  his  third 
cup  of  tea,  with  great  appearance  of  repose 
and  cheerfulness.  It  was  a  sultry  July  day. 
The  house,  however,  being  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  street,  no  sun  ever  found  its  way  into 
the  rooms ;  so,  through  the  open  windows 
the  inmates  only  partook  of  the  <rlare  from 
the  opposite  houses,  and  the  stuffiness  com- 
mon to  small  London  streets  during  the  dog- 
days. 

Mr.  Danby  had  never  lived  out  of  London 
since  his  boyhood,  and  perceived  nothing  of 
this.  True,  when  he  occasionally  went  down 
into  the  country,  and  breathed  the  fresh  air, 
and  looked  up  to  the  blue  sky,  something  in 
his  heart  made  him  feel  that  he  liked  it  all, 
and  might  have  been  happier  had  he  never 
left  it;  but  the  feeling  quickly  passed,  and 
he  always  returned  with  pleasure  to  the  as- 
sociates, and  habits,  and  old  city  faces,  for 
which  nothing  can  compensate  a  thorough 
Londoner,  as  he  was.  He  had  been  in  busi- 


ness the  greater  part  of  his  life,  business  of 
various  kinds,  and  none  of  which  had  an- 
swered remarkably  well,  although-  he  had 
never  actually  failed.  Danby  was  honest 
and  industrious ;  but  his  nature  was  not  one 
likely  to  do  much  in  the  world.  He  had 
neither  sufficient  courage  for  speculation,  nor 
clear-sighted  prudence  enough  when  it  was 
really  required  ;  and,  to  sum  up  all.  he  had  been 
"  unfortunate."  Some  one  had  always 
stepped  in  before  him,  just  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  a  fortune  was  to  be  made ;  and 
if  he  did  undertake  any  larger  risks,  there 
was  sure  to  be  some  unlooked-for  depression 
in  the  very  article  he  had  speculated  upon. 
In  short,  as  all  men  who  have  the  knack  of 
not  getting  on  say  of  themselves,  he  had 
been  "  unfortunate." 

Mr.  St.  John  was  his  first  cousin  on  the 
mother's  side,  and,  as  the  reader  may  re- 
member, was  induced  about  the  time  of  his 
own  marriage  to  embark  almost  the  whole  of 
his  small  capital  in  one  of  Danby's  larger 
undertakings.  "  It  was  to  make  them  both 
rich  men,  there  was  no  risk  whatever,  it  was 
unlike  all  his  former  speculations " — such 
were  the  arguments  which  persuaded  Mr.  St. 
John,  who  was  like  a  child  in  business,  to 
give  over  his  money  to  his  cousin.  As  usual 
it  turned  out  "  unfortunately."  There  were 
other  persons  in  the  transaction  besides  Dan- 
by, equally  unsuccessful,  but  not  equally 
honest,  and  at  the  end  of  six  months,  with- 
out in  the  least  understanding  how,  Mr.  St. 
John  discovered  that  he  had  been  swindled 
out  of  the  whole  of  his  money.  He  talked 
faintly  at  first  about  taking  legal  measures 
for  its  recovery,  but  soon  abandoned  the 
idea,  and  finally  concluded  that  it  was  one 
of  the  usual  risks  of  trade,  and  that  poor 
Gilbert  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  himself. 
As  it  happened,  Danby  was  not  involved  to 
such  a  very  great  extent  in  the  speculation — 
the  failure  at  least  did  not  ruin  him — but  the 
thought  of  having  caused  his  cousin's  poverty 
remained  with  him  for  life,  and  he  could 
never  hear  his  name  mentioned  without  a 
certain  pang  of  self-reproach.  No  ill-feeling 
towards  Danby  had  rankled  for  a  second  in 
Mr.  St.  John's  heart.  They  continued  at 
intervals  to  correspond,  and  when  his  health 
began  to  fail,  he  appointed  his  cousin  in  his 
will  as  Marguerite's  guardian  in  the  event  of 
his  own  death,  and  acquainted  him  at  the 
same  time  that  he  had  done  so. 

At  that  period  Danby  was  still  a  widower. 
He  had  married  quite  early  in  life ;  but  his 
first  wife  died  within  a  twelvemonth  after  her 
marriage ;  and  for  thirty  years  the  idea  of 
taking  to  himself  a  second  never  occurred  to 
him.  When,  at  length,  he  had  realised 
sufficient  money  to  live  upon  in  small  inde- 
pendence, he  left  business  entirely,  and 
bought  a  house  in  Tavistock  Street,  where 
he  lived  comfortably  enough,  with  an  old 
housekeeper  to  attend  upon  him,  until  about 
two  years  from  the  present  time,  when  his 


100 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


good — or  some  might  say  his  evil — genius 
threw  him  in  the  way  of  his  present  wife  and 
her  charming  daughter. 

It  was  Mr.  Danby's  practice,  every  sum- 
mer, to  go  down  to  the  sea-side  for  a  few 
•weeks,  Margate  or  Ramsgate  being  usually 
'liis  choice,  as  cheerful  and  accessible  from 
London,  away  from  which  he  was  never 
happy  for  many  days  together.  Just  as  his 
housekeeper,  one  fine  afternoon,  was  pack- 
ing her  master's  portmanteau,  in  readiness  to 
start  for  llamsgate  the  following  morning, 
one  of  his  friends  came  in,  and,  in  a  fatal 
hour,  persuaded  Danby  to  change  his  plans, 
and  accompany  him  to  Boulogne.  This 
friend  was  an  old  school-mate,  and  they  had 
entered  business  about  the  same  time.  He 
had,  however,  been  just  as  successful  as 
Danby  was  the  reverse,  and  old  Mortimer, 
the  stockbroker,  was  now  looked  upon  as 
one  of  the  most  fortunate  men  on  'Change. 
He  was  rather  younger  than  Danby,  and 
still  in  business,  although  he  had  long  since 
realised  a  large  fortune. 

"  Come  to  Boulong,  Danby.  There  is 
twice  the  amusement  there  to  what  there  is  at 
Kamsgate,  and  the  best  prawns  I  ever  ate." 

"But  I  don't  know  the  tongue:  I  was 
never  among  Frenchmen  in  my  life." 

"  No  more  you  will  be  now.  French  isn^ 
spoken  at  Boulong.  The  shops  are  English  ; 
the  visitors  are  English  ;  prices  are  English; 
and  you  have  all  the  advantages  of  living  in 
England,  with  the  variety  of  being  able  to 
say  that  you  are  in  a  foreign  country." 

So  the  next  morning,  attired  in  that  am- 
phibious costume  of  large-check  shooting- 
roats,  short  nankeen  trousers,  dust-colored 
shoes,  and  wide-awake  hats,  which  elderly 
Cockneys  deem  most  congenial  to  sea-side 
life,  the  two  friends  departed  in.  a  Boulogne 
•t  earner. 

Danby  liked  the  change  immensely ;  and 
for  the  first  fortnight  he  and  his  friend  were 
constantly  to  be  seen,  linked  arm-in-arm, 
walking  about  the  sands  of  a  morning,  or  up 
and  down  the  pier  of  an  evening — the  ar- 
rival of  the  English  boats,  and  looking  out 
Jor  new-comers  forming  one  of  their  princi- 
pal amusements.  At  the  end  of  this  time, 
however,  the  stock-broker,  much  to  the  re- 
gret of  both,  was  recalled  to  town  on  busi- 
:hat  would  involve  some  delay,  and 
D.«nbv  was  forced  to  remain  alone  during 
the  three  weeks  he  meantyet  to  stay  abroad. 

"Ami  I  will  just  tell  you  what,  Danby/1 
paid  old  Mortimer,  as  they  walked  together, 
late  in  the  e\ening,  on  the  pier,  for  the  last, 
time — "  you  steer  clear  of  the  widow  when 
]  am  gone.*' 

"  What  widow?"  said  Danby,  innocently. 

"Why,  .Mrs.  I'mrgh,  or  !>'•  Hiipdi,  or 
•whale  .ills  her>elf,  of  eoiir- 

has  had  her  eye  on  both  of  us  from  the  day 
•We  entered  the  boardiog-botlfd.  She  first 
found  out.  I  was  ri'-he^t,  I  supj»o>i — thev  are 
'the  devil  fur  their  instinct  in  that,  the.v  wid- 


s; but  when  she  saw  it  wouldn't  do, 
turned  her  attention  to  you  ;  and,  as  sure  as 
faith,  they  want  to  get  vou  between  them." 

"  To  get  me  !  and  what,  in  heaven's  name, 
do  they  want  to  do  with  me  ?  "  replied  Dan- 
by, airhast. 

"  Why,  to  marry  you,  of  course !  Tut, 
man  !  you  need  not  be  so  unconscious  of 
what  widows  mean  when  they  lay  themselves 
out  to  please  men  like  you  and  me.  Why, 
you  get  quite  red  with  pleasure,  as  it  is, 
when  Mrs.  Burgh  singles  you  out  to  talk  to 
before  every  one  else  at  dinner.  I  believe 
the  girl  was  after  me  at  first,  till  she  saw  I 
wasn't  the  kind  for  them,  and  that  disreput- 
able looking  Italian  (who  cheats  young 
Greenwood  every  evening  at  ecarte)  began 
to  pay  her  attention.  But  the  mother  is  af- 
ter you — and  for  herself,  too." 

"  And  I  hope  she  will  like  mo  when  she 
gets  me,"  added  poor  Danby,  with  a  little 
dry  laugh  at  the  intended  pleasantry. 

"  Now,  Danby,"  rejoined  his  friend, 
"  don't  you  go  and  be  such  a  con — founded 
idiot  (I  beg  your  pardon)  as  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  those  women.  If  a  man  of 
your  age,  or  mine,  marries  at  all,  he's  a 
fool ;  but,  if  I  ever  did  commit  such  an  act 
of  insanity — which  I  never  shall — at  least  I 
would  have  something  fresh  and  tolerably  in- 
nocent, a  farmer's  daughter  from  the  coun- 
try, or  some  article  of  that  kind — something, 
at  all  events,  that  should  know  rather  less  of 
this  wicked  world  than  I  do  myself.  But  one 
of  these;  widows,  or  their  daughters — it's  all 
one — who  have  been  here  and  there — one 
time  in  one  capital  of  Europe,  then  in  an- 
other—  offered  np  and  refused  in  every 
wr.tering-place  in  England  and  out  of  it,  and 
carrying  on  about  a  dozen  such  games  a 
season  as  Miss  Georgv  is  now  doing  with 
that  moustachioed  rascal  at  the  boarding- 
house — I  tell  you  what,  my  friend  :  I  would 
quite  as  soon, 'or  a  good  deal  sooner,  marry 
one  of  those  fisher-girls  who  are  carrying 
home  their  baskets  yonder  on  the  beach. 
One  can,  at  least,  feel  pretty  certain  what 
f/in'r  lives  have  been  hitherto,  and  I  defy 
mortal  man  to  say  as  much  for  the  others." 

As  Mr.  Danby  had  a  good  memory,  and 
Mrs.  fie  Burgh  afterwards  became  his  wife, 
it  is  possible  that  his  friend's  words  recu;  red 
to  him  with  more  distinctness  than  w;n 
agreeable  in  future  days.  However,  for  the 
present,  he  onlv  answered — "  He  was  quite. 
Bafu  from  all  the  widows  in  creation;  but,  he 
must  add,  he  thought.  Mortimer's  strictures 
unjust  regarding  Mrs.  de  l>urgh— a  woman 
ol 'good  family  and  reserved  manners,  and 
who  had  always,  from  her  own  account, 
mixed  in  the  r,,-i/  fir.il  society." 

"  Then  what  was  >he  doing  with  her  (laugh- 
ter in  a  iJoiilong  boarding-house  ?  "  anv.vcr- 
ed  old  Mortimer. 

He  went  oil'  earlv    the  next    morning,  and 

I •  D.uiby  w.is    Id'i    :doii<-  to  withstand   thy 

attractions  of  his  new  friend;*. 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


101 


Mrs.  de  Enroll  was  the  widow  of  an  officer 
— of  Irish  police,  it  was  believed — but  she 
dropped  the  particular  corps  to  which  he  be- 
longed, and  only  spoke  of  him  as  the  late 
Major  de  Burgh.  It  was  also  whispered 
that  the  gallant  Irishman  during  his  life-time, 
had  been  known  inder  the  name  of  Bruff, 
and  that  his  widow,  coi  sidering  that  title 
plebeian,  had  changed  it  into  Burgh,  and  sub- 
sequently De  Burgh.  These  were,  however, 
merely  malicious  whispers,  to  which  so  many 
others  were  added  as  made  one  think  Mrs.  de 
Burgh  must,  on  the  whole,  be  a  very  injured 
woman.  She  was  now  about  five-and-forty, 
still  good-looking,  tall,  slight,  and  unmistak- 
ably lady-like — for,  whatever  else  was  false, 
she  was  a  woman  of  decent  family  herself, 
and  her  appearance  was  refined.  She  was 
rather  die-away,  and  considerably  affected  ; 
but  Danby,  who  was  little  acustomed  to  fe- 
male society,  thought  her  very  elegant,  and 
was  quite  dazzled  at  the  number  of  "  Sirs,1' 
and  "Lords,"  not  to  mention  a  few  "  Dukes," 
whom  she  spoke  of  as  intimate  acquaint- 
ances. A  thorough  knowledge  of  the  peer- 
age, and  an  unblushing  application  of  it,  is 
always  a  characteristic  of  the  class  to  which 
Mrs.  de  Burgh  belonged. 

Miss  de  Burgh,  commonly  called  Georgy, 
was  twenty  years  younger  than  her  mother, 
and  consequently  already  at  an  age  at  which 
the  first  timidity  of  girlhood  may  be  consid- 
ered over.  She  was  tall,  high-colored,  with 
hazel  eyes,  black  curls,  and  white  teeth,  and 
was  of  that  style  usually  termed  by  middle- 
aged  half-pays  at  watering-places,  "-a  doos- 
ed  fine  girl.1'  Of  Georgy  \s  inner  woman  it 
would  be  more  difficult  to  speak  with  certain- 
ty than  of  her  black  hair  and  high  color,  a 
remarkable  instability  being,  indeed,  the 
leading  feature  of  her  character.  In  Swit- 
zerland, for  instance,  she  sketched,  rode, 
crossed  torrents,  climbed  mountains,  or  was 
fast,  to  any  extent  which  suited  the  college 
men  who  might  be  "reading  "  at  Interlachen. 

At  Heidelberg,  the  Kron-Prinz  von  H , 

might  have  thought  her  the  incarnation  of 
German  sentimentality  as  she  talked  of  ewige 
Liebe  with  him  under  the  lindens  by  moon- 
light (Georgy  spoke  all  languages  well,)  and 
smiled  as  placidly  as  a  German  maiden 
should  while  he  smoked  in  her  face.  And, 
if  thrown  accidentally  with  English  clergy- 
men, she  could  a  disposition  be  high-church, 
cloth-embroidering,  architectural,  mediaeval, 
catholic  ;  or  low-church,  world-adjuring,  dis- 
trict'-visiting,  tract-dispensing,  papist-hating. 
With  the  very  young  of  the  opposite  sex  she 
was  ordinarily  amusing,  rather  dashing,  and 
not  sparing  of  piquant  anecdotes — boys  like 
that  style ;  with  the  middle-aged  she  was 
giddy,  perhaps,  but  guileless ;  said  the 
strangest  things  without  knowing  it,  and,  if 
her  mamma  reproved  her,  would  show  as 
much  childish  shame  as  could  well  be  expect- 
ed from  a  young  lady  of  five-and-twenty 
summers — most  of  them  spent  on  the  conti- 


nent— ar.xj  ,v3l\c^  yas  J  perfect^  Veil''  rea()'  >iij 
French  novels. 

With  her  personal  attractions,  her  muta- 
bility of  character,  and  her  mother's  aristo- 
cratic blood,  it  may  seem  surprising  that 
this  young  creature  should  still  have  contin- 
ued Miss  Georgy  after  nine  years  of  charm- 
ing womanhood.  That  it  was  not  her  owr\ 
fault,  however,  must  be  admitted,  and  also 
that  instances  are  not  rare  in  which  the  hard- 
er sex  remain  long  untouched  by  the  pros- 
pect of  matrimonal  bliss  so  readily  and  lib- 
erally held  out  to  them.  • 

On  the  present  occasion,  having  soon  seen 
that  Mr.  Mortimer  was  a  knowing  old  card — 
Georgy  could  be  very  slang — and  no  go,  she 
was  deep  in  a  flirtation  with  a  handsome, 
good-for-nothing  Italian  (brother  to  one  of 
the  first  singers  in  the  world,  by  whom  he  is 
allowed  a  hundred-a-year  to  live  out  of  Eng- 
land) just  to  keep  her  hand  in.  Young 
Greenwood,  the  only  other  Englishman  in  the 
boarding-house,  was  beneath  her  game  for 
marriage  ;  and  Danby  she  handed  over  to 
mamma.  They  believed  him  richer  than  he 
really  was;  and,  as  the  widow  and  her 
daughter  were  always  extremely  well-dressed 
and  had  such  high  connections,  Danby  also 
took  it  into  his  head  that  their  means  were 
not  small. 

He  managed  to  keep  clear  of '  them  for 
some  days  after  Mortimer  left.  His  friend's 
words  had  impressed  him  unpleasantly,  and 
he  had  no  deliberate  intention  whatever,  of 
committing  such  folly  as  a  second  marriage. 
He  was  perfectly  comfortable  in  his  snug, 
old-fashioned  way  in  Tavistock  Street ;  his 
housekeeper  kept  everything  in  order,  and 
gave  him  well  -  dressed  meals  at  regular 
hours ;  he  had  his  friends  to  dine  with  him 
occasionally,  and  dined  with  them  in  return  ; 
what  more  could  he  want?  But  "  rhomme 
propose." 

Four  weeks  after  the  friends  parted  on  the 
pier,  the  stock- broker  received  the  following 
letter: — 

"  DEAR  MORTIMER, — I  should  have  writ- 
ten to  you  sooner,  but  my  time  has  been  so 
taken  up  since  you  left  that  I  have  not  had 
an  hour  to  myself.  Excursions,  walks,  boat- 
ing parties,  picnics,  have  been  making  quite 
a  young  man  of  me — and  an  old  fool,  you 
would  add,  at  my  time  of  life.  Well,  the 
fact,  is,  my  friend,  Mrs.  de  Burgh's  daughter 
(you  remember  Miss  Georgy,)  is  naturally 
fond  of  these  kind  of  amusements ;  but  her 
mother,  with  the  reserve  peculiar  to  our 
countrywomen,  does  not  choose  her  to  enter 
into  them,  even  under  her  own  chaperonage, 
unless  escorted  by  some  gentleman,  in  whom 
she.  can  place  confidence  as  more  than  a  mere 
acquaintance ;  and  this  circumstance  alone 
has  led  me  into  habits  so  unlike  my  usual 
quiet  ones.  They  (I  mean  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Burgh),  are  only  waiting  here  a  few  days 
longer,  until  the  arrival  of  Lord  and  Lady 


PHILIP  EAKNSCLIFFE. 


ieir  "ousins,  rvylio.ni  *l.pv  will  ac- 
coi]] pa«v to  Paris  ;  and  about  the  same  time 
you  'may  expect  to  see  me  in  London.  It  is 
already  past  the  time  at  which  I  should  be 
dressed  for  a  donkey  exhibition  to  some  dis- 
tant ruins;  so  I  must  conclude. 

"  And  I  am  ever,  dear  Mortimer,  your 
faithful  friend,  GILBERT  DANDY. 

"  JOHN  MORTIMER,  ESQ." 

"Well !  "  said  Mortimer  to  himself,  as  he 
finished  the  letter,  "  I  did  not  really  think 
my  old  friend  would  have  turned  out  such  a 
beastly  idiot — at  sixty  years  of  age  !  '  Re- 
serve1— '  confidence1 — '  more  than  mere  ac- 
quaintance1— faugh  !  Well,  if  the  man  is 
s»ill  to  tie  saved,  it  sba'nt  be  my  fault  if  he 
marries  either  of  them."  And,  at  consider- 
able inconvenience,  Mortimer  left  town  that 
very  afternoon,  arrived  at  Boulogne  by  the 
evening  packet.  Pie  walked  in  high  dudg- 
eon up  the  pier,  a  garcon,  from  the  hotel  he 
had  always  frequented  before  he  tried  that 

boarding-house,  carrying  his  carpet  bag 

behind,  and  when  he  was  about  half  way  up, 
•whom  should  he  see  but  Danby,  with  the 
•widow  on  one  arm  and  the  daughter  on  the 
other,  looking  very  red  and  foolish,  and  the 
ladies  remarkably  cheerful.  Danby  looked 
more  red  and  foolish  still  when  he  recognised 
his  friend ;  while  the  widow  simpered,  and 
looked  conscious,  in  a  manner  that  made 
poor  Mortimer  absolutely  sick.  His  manner 
was  none  of  the  pleasantest  when  they  all 
stopped  for  greeting. 

"  Quite  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr. 
Mortimer !  " 

•*  Quite  so,  ma'am,  to  all  parties  ;  "  and  he 
glanced  at  poor  Danby,  who  felt  like  a  de- 
tected school-boy. 

"  1  hope  you  will  stop  longer  this  time 
than  you  did  before." 

*'  That  all  depends  upon  circumstances. 
I  mean  to  stop  until  I  take  my  friend  back 
again  with  me." 

Miss  Georgy  laughed;  and,  being  in  a 
child-like  mood,  remarked,  "  That  he  might 
have  to  escort  a  larger  party  than  he  thought 
for." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Bruff !  Who  is  to  form 
the  addition,  if  you  please?  " 

Mnrtimcr  had  heard  the  story  about  the 
change  of  name ;  and,  being  in  a  vicious 
temper,  threw  this  in  accidentally,  as  a 
chance  shot  t'  at  might  tell  upon  some  one. 
Mr.s.  de  Burgh  turned  red,  and  clung  to 
Panbv's  arm,  while  she  whispered,  some- 
what hysterically,  in  his  ear.. 

"Mortimer!"  said  he  somewhat  deprc- 
ratmgly. 

"Sir!" 

"  Yon  M-ein  unaware — that  is — it  might 
be  as  well— "  His  voice  got  quite  gurgly. 

"  Sir  !  "  repeated  Mortimer,  looking  si  r;ii;rlit 
before  him  in  a  way  not  at  all  calculated  to 
jielp  his  friend  out. 

Several  persons  had  by  this  time  turned 


round  to  stare  at  the  irascible-looking,  mid- 
lle-aged  gentleman,  and  the  well-known 
widow  and  daughter.  The  garcou  rested 
:he  back  of  his  hand  upon  his  mouth,  and 
ittle  French  boys  cried,  "  My  God  !  Adol- 
•>he !  regard  then  the  English ;"  while  Dan- 
>y  wished  himself  fathoms  deep  in  the  sea. 

"  It  might  be  as  well,"  he  went  on,  in  a 
ow  tone,  '*  to  let  you  know,  as  my  oldest 
friend,  the  peculiar  and  delicate" — Mortimer 
smiled  politely — "circumstances  of  the  case. 
My  happiness  may  appear  to  you  sudden  ; 
:uit,  the  fact  is,  I  am  in  a  few  days  to  have 
.he  happiness — I  would  say  honor — of  be- 
coming, or  rather  of  Mrs.  de  Burgh  becom- 
ng,  mv  wife." 

Mortimer  listened  quite  quietly  to  the 
end. 

11  Garcong !  "— "  Yes,  sare." 

'*  When  does  the  next  boat  start  for  Eng- 
land ?  " 

"  De  next  boat !  "  The  garcon  looked  at 
bis  watch.  "  Tide  high  in  fifty  minutes — in 
one  hour,  sare." 

"  Very  good.  Then  carry  back  my  car- 
pet-bag to  the  landing,  and  wait  until  I  re- 
turn ;  I  shall  go  by  her." 

"  Yes,  sare,"  utterly  amazed,  although 
accustomed  to  Britons.  "  Will  monsieur 
not  step  to  the  hotel,  he  has  plenty  of  time  ?  " 

"  And  can  look  after  himself,  sir,  thank 
you ;  which  is  more  than  every  man  of  sixty 
can  do,"  and  he  glanced  at  Danby,  who 
seemed  actually  sinking  with  shame  ;  for  one 
or  two  idlers  from  the  boarding-house  had 
now  joined  the  knot  of  lookers-on. 

*•  My  dear  Mortimer,  surely  you  will  stay 
to  witness " 

••  I  thank  you,  Danby.  The  time  is  gone 
by  when  farces  interest  me,  or  executions 
either.  I  wish  you  all  the  happiness  you  de- 
serve, and  your  amiable  future  wife  also,  not 
forgetting  her  youthful  daughter — your  daugh- 
ter, 1  should  rather  say — ha!  ha!  excuse  mv 
good  spirits ;  and  when  the  honey-moon  is 
over,  if  you  can  spare  an  hour,  I  shall  be 
still  happy  to  see  you  in  Portland  Place,  and 
hear  how  you  are  going  on.  Pray  do  not 
let  me  detain  you;  I  have  just  time  for  a 
cutlet." 

And  with  a  gny  nod,  but  really  boiling 
over  with  rage,  Mortimer  passed  on.  leaving 
the  bridegroom-elect  in  much  the  same  state 
<•!'  feeling  as  a  man  who  has  received  the  last 
good  wishes  of  his  relations,  before  being 
hanged. 

However,  Daub}  had  fairly  done  it.  His 
friend  returned  the  same  evening  t<>  Folk- 
stone  ;  and  in  a  few  days  afterwards  the 
well-horn  widow  became  Oil  wile.  That  he 
was  not  long  in  bitterly  regretting  his  mar- 
riiiiT'1,  it  is  needless  to  say.  What  man  of 
sixty  ever  found  his  happiness  increased  by 
marrying  again,  opeeially  if  his  second  wile. 
be  a  widow,  with  a  very  gro\vn-up  d:murh- 

The  new  Mrs.   Danby  and  Georgy 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


103 


mightily  disappointed  when  they  reached 
London,  and  saw  the  old-fashioned,  hmn-drthn 
style  of  their  future  home.  Nor  was  Danby 
less  surprised  on  discovering  the  extremely 
small  means  on  which  these  ladies  had  hith- 
erto contrived  to  keep  up  a  good  appearance. 
And  mutual  recriminations  ensued. 

To  overturn  all  his  habits,  and  sneer  at  his 
dowdv  friends,  and  introduce  a  thousand  in- 
novations into  his  household,  were  the  first 
endeavors  of  the  ladies.  But  Danby  was  no 
fool  in  general — although  in  one  particular 
instance  he  had  so  egregiously  showed  him- 
self one — and  he  would  neither  give  up  his 
house,  his  friends,  nor  his  economical  habits. 
He  would  have  been  as  glad,  after  a  few 
months  of  step-paternity,  as  most  people,  to 
get  Georgy  married.  It  would  be  one  less, 
at  all  events.  But  he  could  not  see  how  this 
was  likely  to  be  effected  by  following  out  the 
same  false,  flashy  system  which  had  signally 
failed  for  ten  years  already.  So  he  resolute- 
ly set  his  face  against  balls  and  parties  in  his 
own  house,  and  said — "  If  Georgy  wanted 
to  get  a  husband,  she  had  much  more  chance 
of  doing  so  by  stopping  decently  at  home, 
than  by  going  to  Hanover  Square  balls,  and 
trying  to  hang  on  to  the  disreputable  skirts 
of  grand  society."  For  he  soon  saw  how  far 
his  wife's  acquaintance  with  titled  people 
was  genuine ;  and  that,  while  the  majority 
of  her  noble  friends  were  myths,  the  one  or 
two  broken-down  lords  and  tawdry  "Ladv 
Somebodies,"  whom  she  had  managed  to  get 
acquainted  with  at  foreign  watering-places, 
and  hunted  up  again  in  London,  were  people 
whose  character  had  long  since  thrown  them 
out  of  their  own  rank  of  life  in  England. 

Danby  had  how,  however,  been  married 
for  two  years,  and  he  had  found  out,  like 
many  wiser  men  before  him,  that  his  great- 
est chance  of  peace  lay  in  allowing  his  wo- 
man-kind, as  far  as  possible,  to  have  their 
own  way.  They  might  go  to  their  parties, 
and  occasionally  have  their  *'  reunions  "  at 
home,  at  which  he  seldom  appeared,  so  long 
as  they  kept  tolerably  within  bounds  in 
money ;  and  he  dined  with  his  old  cronies, 
and  occasionally  had  them  to  dine  with  him 
in  return,  generally  selecting  those  days  on 
which  Mrs.  Danby  and  her  daughter  were 
engaged  elsewhere.  Mortimer,  when  his 
first  irritation  was  over,  had  become  just  as 
friendly  as  ever;  indeed,  it  rather  afforded 
that  old  bachelor  pleasure  than  otherwise,  to 
get  Danby  by  himself  to  dinner,  and  listen, 
with  the  grim  cheerfulness  of  a  friend,  to 
accounts  of  his  domestic  happiness.  And  as 
every  year  made  Georgy  more  alive  to  the 
necessity  of  keeping  on  good  terms  with  all 
rich,  single  men,  Mortimer  usually  received 
a  very  civil  reception  in  Tavistock  Street,  in 
spite  of  that  unpleasant  manner  of  his  on 
the  pier  at  Boulogne. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Mr.  DANBY  had  just  breakfasted  ns  the 
postman  came  up  to  the  door ;  and  in  anoth- 
er minute  he  was  reading  Earnscliffe's  letter. 
Percy  St.  John  had  been  his  last  natural 
ie  in  the  world,  and  he  was  greatly  shocked 
at  hearing  so  unexpectedly  of  his  death. 
The  recollection  of  their  youth,  of  his  cous- 
n's  unworldly  nature — his  ready  forgiveness 
towards  himself — the  kindly  letters  he  had 
always  written  in  his  varied  difficulties — 
overcame  him ;  and  Danby  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  thankful  that  he  received  the 
tidings  alone,  with  no  wife  or  step-daughter 
to  witness  his  emotion.  After  a  time  he 
took  up  the  letter  again,  and  read  it  to  the 
end.  "  You  are  his  daughter's  guardian, 
and  will,  doubtless,  at  once  receive  her  into 
your  care,"  were  the  last  words. 

44  Receive  her  !  Yes,  poor  child,  that  will 
I !  "  said  Danby,  half  aloud.  "  Would  God 
it  were  a  better  home  to  bring  her  to.  If  I 
had  not  married  again,  she  would  have  come 
like  a  child  to  me  in  my  old  age,  for  Percy 
St.  John's  daughter  must  have  something  of 
his  nature  in  her,  and  I  could  have  loved 
her.  Now,  she  will  have  Miss  Georgy  for  a 
companion,  and  become  like  her,  perhaps ! 
Well,  I  must  hope  for  the  best.  I  wonder 
how  Mrs.  Danby  will  take  it !  " 

He  rose,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room 
for  nearly  an  hour ;  old  and  bitter  remem- 
brances thronging  fast  upon  his  mind,  joined 
to  his  musings  on  the  young  creature,  whom 
death  had  just  thrown  upon  his  care,  and 
was  so  deep  in  thought,  that  he  quite  start- 
ed when  the  door  flew  open,  and  Geor- 
gy, not  in  the  neatest  of  morning  costume, 
entered  the  room.  She  considered  a  dress- 
ing-gown, untidy  slippers,  and  hair  pinned 
up  tightly  on  her  temples,  quite  attention, 
enough  for  her  step-father. 

"  Morning,  pa." 

"  Good  morning,  my  dear.  Is  your  mam- 
ma dressed  ?  " 

*'  I  really  could  not  say,"  seating  herself. 
"Coffee  cold,  toast  tough:  just  ring  the 
bell,  pa!" 

He  obeyed  mechanically ;  and  as  he  did 
so,  she  saw  his  face.  "  Gracious  !  how  palo 
you  are.  Are  you  ill  ?  perhaps  you  ate  too 
much  melon  yesterday.  Hot  coffee  and 
toast !  " — to  the  old  servant  who  entered  ; 
"  And  are  there  no  rolls  ?  " 

44  No,  there  ain't,  miss,"  was  the  reply ; 
44  the  boy  forgot  them." 

44  Stupid  wretch  !  "  returned  Georgy,  glan- 
cing fiercely  at  the  old  woman,  and  leaving 
it  doubtful  to  whom  the  title  was  applied. 
**  Everything  is  forgotten  in  this  house ! 
Make  some  toast,  at  once."  And  she 
stretched  barck  in  her  chair,  and  patting  her 
knife  up  and  down  on  her  plate,  discon- 
tentedly, forgot  all  about  her  step-father's 
pale  face. 


104 


HIILTP  EARXSCL1FFE. 


He  continued  to  walk  about  tlio  room, 
without  speaking;  and  after  a  few  minutes, 
Mrs.  Danby  entered.  The  greeting  between 
herself  nnd  her  daughter  was  not  much  more 
affectionate  than  had  been  that  of  the  step- 
father. 

"  Xo  breakfast  ready  !  "  said  the  lady  of 
the  house,  peevishly,  as  she  seated  herself, 
without  even  looking  at  her  husband. 

"  I  have  ordered  some,  hours  ago," 
Georgy  answered,  "  but,  as  usual,  the  rolls 
are  forgotten,  and  now,  I  suppose  the  coffee, 
too  :  ring  the  bell  again,  pa." 

"  My  dear,  "Wilkins  has  not  had  time  to 
get  it  ready  ;  besides,  she  does  not  like  to  be 
hurried." 

Georgy  tossed  her  head.  "  When  T  have 
servants,  they  must  learn  what  /  like,1'  she 
said. 

On  another  occasion,  Danby  would  have 
retorted  that  Georgy  must  wait  till  she  li'id 
servants  :  however,  he  wished  now  to  keep 
them  both  in  good  humor,  and  rang  the  bell 
again.  Wilkins  came  up  immediately  with 
half-done  toast  and  bad  coffee,  and  remarked 
'*  she  had  had  no  time  to  get  the  things  bet- 
ter.'1 It  was  singular  what  clear,  strong 
coffee,  and  hot  rolls,  always  graced  the  mas- 
ter's early  breakfast-table,  when  compared 
with  those  which  appeared  at  the  late  meal  of 
the  ladies. 

"  She  is  intolerable,"  said  Mrs.  Danby, 
almost  before  the  door  was  closed.  "  I  shall 
have  some  change  in  the  establishment 
soon." 

**  There  is  likely  to  be  one,"  interrupted 
Danby,  stopping  short,  and  catching  the 
opening.  "  I  have  received  a  letter  this 
morning  telling  me  of  my  cousin  St.  John's 
death ;  and  as  his  young  daughter  is  left  my 
ward,  she  will  for  the  future  find  a  home  with 
me." 

Like  all  nervous  people,  when  Danby  did 
bring  out  anything  with  an  effort,  he  spoke 
quick,  and  told  it  abruptly. 

'•'Oh!"  exclaimed  both  ladies.  "Has 
she  money  ?  "  added  the  eldest  one. 

Dauby  winced.  It  was  the  one  sore  point 
on  his  conscience. 

"  Not  much  ;  but  I  suppose  the  sale  of  the 
old  chateau  where  they  live  will  realise 
•ometbing.  However,"  he  added,  firmly, 
"  she  will  want  for  nothing  while  I  live.'1 

His  wife  and  her  daughter  exchanged 
looks;  and  Mrs.  Danby  hated  Marguerite  on 

tin-  spot. 

"  lie  died  quite  suddenly,"  Danby  went 
on.  "  Poor  little  child  !  how  desolate  she 
must  be  in  that  lonely  place  !  " 

"Oh!  she  is  only  a  child,  then?"  cried 
Georgy  ;  and  the  vision  of  a  brat  of  five, 
who  could  live  in  the  kitchen  with  Wilkins, 
ila-hed  MCI-O-.S  her. 

Dauby  made  our  of  those  elabonte  calm 
litiODI  by  which  Mime  perxms  find  il  MUtyf  I 
arrive  ;it  d.ito  ;    starting    with    his    OW1 
deducting    ten,  adding    thirty,  taking   away 


something  else,  and  finally  concluding  that 
Percy's  child  must  be  about  sixteen.  "  And 
ndeed,"  he  continued,  "  in  one  of  his  last 
etters,  poor  fellow  !  he  said  she  was  growing 
ip,  and  was  very  like  her  mother.  If  she  is 
>o,  and  has  anything  of  his  features  too,  she 
must  indeed  be  lovely ;  for  I  have  heard  that 
*iis  wife  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  I 
icver  saw  a  more  perfect  face  than  Percy's." 

There  was  an  ominous  pause. 

"And  you  mean  this  Miss  St.  John  is  to 
live  with  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Danby  resumed. 

''Undoubtedly,"  replied  Danby.  "Her 
Iiome  will  be  with  me,  so  long  as  she  remains 
unmarried,  and  I  have  a  home  to  offer  her." 

His  face  had  just  the  expression  it  always 
assumed  when  his  wife  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  dismiss  his  old  servant,  and  she  knew  that 
he  would  be  firm. 

"  It  might  have  been  as  well  to  have  men- 
tioned all  this  sooner,"  she  said,  peevishly. 
"  If  I  had  known  you  were  going  to  have 

cousins  and  people  coming  to  live  with  you 

» 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Danby,  I  say  it  would  have 
been  as  well  to  mention  these  things  before 
you  married  me." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  made  any 
great  difference  in  your  decision,  Mrs. 
Danby."  He  was  roused  at  last  at  her  cold 
selfishness.  "  Besides,  the  question  scarcely 
involves  yourself  at  all.  I  intend  to  take 
one  fatherless  girl  of  sixteen  into  my  house, 
and  to  treat  her — God  help  me  ! — as  though 
she  were  my  own  child.  You  need  not 
trouble  yourself  about  her,  unless  your  own 
feelings  incline  you  to  do  so ;  and  the  more 
she*  keeps  at  home  with  me,  and  the  less 
she  goes  out  into  your  society  the  better." 

"Very  well,  sir.  I  am  glad  I  understand 
the  footing  on  which  she  is  to  be  placed," 
said  Mrs.  Danby,  sharply.  "  And  as  you 
will  love  her  '  like  your  own  child,1  doubtless 
you  will  introduce  her  to  your  own  circle  of 
friends.  When  does  the  young  person  ar- 
rive ?  " 

"  Her  father  is  not  yet  buried,"  Dauby 
returned,  quietly,  "  so  I  cannot  say.  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  see  this  letter, 
Georgy?  you  are  fond  of  distinguished  peo- 
ple,1'he  added,  turning  to  her  ;  for  Georgy 
diil  not  led  at  all  the  same  amount  of  spite 
as  her  mother  on  the  subject,  and  was  look- 
ing rather  amused  at  the  small  fight.  "  After 
all,"  she  thought,  "  the  girl  won't  interfere 
with  me,  and.  as  she  is  half  French,  can  help 
me  in  my  dress,  and  keep  up  my  accent.1' 
Danbv  saw  that  she  was  smiling,  and  thought 
lie  would  try  to  win  her  over  to  his  side. 

•'  Would  you  like  to  have  the  autograph 
at  the  botloni  of  the  letter:'" 

"  Philip  Karnsclilfe  !  "  exclaimed  Georgy, 
in  a»toni>liment  ;  "  what,  the  Philip  K.uiis- 

diffeP" 

"  I  should  suppose  so  ;  the  name  is  not  a 
common  one." 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


105 


She  read  the  letter  greedily. 

"  Goodness  !  and  how  intimate  he  seems  ! 
*  My  excellent  friend  ' — *  poor  little  Mar- 
guerite ! '  How  on  earth  did  they  get  to 
know  him  ?  "  She  was  much  too  aufait  of 
all  the  scandal  of  London  life,  not  to  be  per- 
fectly aufait  of  Philip's  private  history  ;  and, 
indeed,  had  seen  him  once  or  twice  at  the 
theatre,  and  thought  him  "  a  dear,  interest- 
ing creature."  Miss  Georgy  looked  quite 
excited. 

*'  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  they  be- 
came acquainted,"  said  her  step-father ;  "  but 
I  do  know  that  any  man  of  education  or 
genius  would  be  certain  to  take  pleasure  in 
St.  John's  society." 

"  And  he  must  be  actuallv  staying  in  the 
house,  ma  ?  Perhaps  he  will  come  over  with 
her.  How  I  should  like  to  know  him  !  " 

Mrs.  Danby  felt  mollified  at  the  idea  of 
the  St.  Johns  knowing  Philip  EarnsclifFe, 
though  she  was  too  dignified  to  show  it  at 
first.  However,  she  made  no  more  unpleas- 
ant speeches  for  the  present,  and  even  con- 
descended to  say  "  she  wished  the  child  well, 
and  if  they  had  friends  in  their  own  rank  of 
life,  that  made  a  great  difference." 

"  I  shall  not  be  in  time  for  his  funeral," 
Danby  went  on,  "  even  if  I  start  to-day. 
Letters  are  so  long  coming  from  that  remote 
part  of  France  ;  but  I  must  go  over  at  once 
for  the  poor  girl." 

« Why?  "said  Mrs.  Danbv.  She  had 
been  for  some  time  meditating  a  trip  to 
Brighton  for  her  own  health,  and  foresaw 
that  Danby's  journey  to  Brittany  would  just 
swallow  up  the  money  she  meant  to  spend  on 
carriages  and  doctors  by  the  sea-side.  "  Why 
at  once,  Mr.  Danby?  Indeed,  if  you  cannot 
be  in  time  for  your  cousin's  funeral,  I  do  not 
see  the  object  of  your  going  at  all.  It  is  not 
likely  Miss  St.  John  would  wish  to  leave  the 
home  where  she  has  always  lived  immediate- 
ly, and  she  must  have  some  friends  in  the 
neighborhood  to  take  care  of  her.  At  all 
events,  you  had  better  write  first-;  express 
your  sorrow,  and  so  -on,  and  take  time  to 
think  over  it.  But  act  as  you  like.  You 
know  how  the  sea  disagrees  with  you  ;  and, 
indeed,  that  a  long  sea  voyage  is  almost 
dangerous  for  you  to  undertake  with  your 
full  habit  of  body.  Act  for  yourself." 

The  last  hint  was  not  thrown  out  without 
its  effect  upon  Danby.  The  sea  really  dis- 
agreed extremely  with  him,  and  if  it  were  at 
all  stormy,  made  him  ill  for  weeks  after- 
wards ;  and  he  had  often  heard  from  Mr.  St. 
John  how  long  and  rough  a  passage  it  gen- 
erally was  from  Southampton  to  St.  Malo. 
So  he  thought,  and  wavered,  and  hesitated, 
between  kindness  for  his  little  cousin,  and 
his  own  dread  of  sea-sickness,  until  his  wife 
saw  how  it  would  end. 

"Think  over  it,  Mr.  Danby,"  she  said, 
mildly;  "think  over  it.  Write  the  letter, 
you  know;  and  then  afterwards,  if  you  think 
it  really  necessary  to  go  for  Miss  St.  John, 


and  that  the  voyage  will  not  hurt  you,  you 
can  do  so." 

"Well,  it  may  be  better  to  write,  per- 
haps," said  Danby;  "  it  would  be  different 
if  she  had  no  English  friends  ;  but  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe  appears  so  really  interested  in  her —  " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Geor.gy.  "  And  why 
an't  Philip  Earnscliffe  bring  her  over  to 
England,  when  she  does  come?  You  might 
propose  it,  pa :  it  would  be  a  good  intro- 
duction to  him." 

Danby  promised  to  do  so ;  and  that  after- 
noon wrote  a  letter  to  Earnscliffe,  inclosing 
a  few  lines  to  Marguerite.  They  were  kind 
and  simple,  and  told  her  that,  from  hence- 
forth, his  home  should  be  hers ;  and  that,  as 
far  as  possible,  he  would  try  to  make  up  ta 
her  for  her  great  loss.  But  Danby  said 
nothing  about  her  coming  immediately,  nei- 
ther did  he  make  any  allusion  to  crossing  the 
Channel  himself.  Mrs.  Danby's  hints  about 
sea-sickness,  and  his  full  habit,  had  done 
their  work ;  and  the  following  week  they  all 
went  down  to  Brighton,  where  Miss  Georgy 
made  and  improved  the  acquaintance  of  a 
very  long-coated  young  Anglican  divine ; 
and  Mrs.  Danby,  who,  since  her  marriage 
had  thought  it  necessary  to  be  an  invalid, 
became  a  convert  to  homoeopathy,  and  an  ex- 
tremely soft-handed,  black-whiskered  apos- 
tle of  that  faith. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

To  all  the  dreadful  minutisB  of  death. 
Marguerite  remained,  happily,  insensible, 
She  was  very  ill  for  many  days ;  and  when 
she  could  once  more  mention  his  name,  her 

father  was  lying  in  the  cemetery  of  N . 

Although  her  illness  was  chiefly  the  effect  of 
her  sudden  grief,  the  excitement  and  ex- 
posure to  cold  and  wet,  on  the  day  among 
the  Morgane  caves,  had  produced  actual  fe- 
ver; and  for  some  time  the  good  doctor 
thought  very  seriously  of  her  case.  Philip, 
who  would  otherwise  have  left  the  manoir  at 

once  and  taken  up  his  quarters  at  N , 

could  not  find  the  resolution  to  do  so  now 
that  Marguerite  was  ill,  and  remained  on 
from  day  to  day — his  own  pale  and  altered 
face  bearing  token  of  the  suffering  through 
which  he  passed. 

Earnscliffe  had  had  many  trials  already : 
disappointment,  sense  of  injustice,  wounded 
pride ;  but  this  was  his  first  sorrow.  In  his 
nature  was  a  store  of  deep  tenderness  that 
had  never  yet  been  called  into  action,  and 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  utterly 
forgot  himself  in  his  anxiety  for  another. 
He  wandered  silently  about  the  house ;  he 
took  no  food,  except  when  Manon  pressed 
it  upon  him  ;  and  when  Marguerite  slept,  or 
during  the  time  that  she  was  insensible  to 


106 


PHILIP  EAEXSCLIFFE. 


all  external  objects,  lie  would  steal  into  her 
room  and  watch  over  her  with  almost  a  wo- 
man's tenderness,  bathe  her  burning  fore- 
'liead,  admit  the  cool  air  to  her  bed,  and  per- 
form a  thousand  offices  which  all  Manon's 
honest  love  could  not  have  supplied.  And 
Marguerite,  unconscious  though  she  was, 
knew  the  gentle  touch,  and  received  the  wa- 
ter or  medicine  more  willingly  from  Earns- 
cliffe's  hand  than  from  the  nurse. 

One  night  she  was  delirious,  and  in  her 
delirium  called  upon  Philip's  mine  repeated- 
ly. From  her  lately-acquired  habit,  what 
she  said  was  in  English ;  but  Mannn  could 
still  detect  the  name,  and  her  eyes  stole 
searching!}-  to  Earnscliffe's  face  as  she  lis- 
tened. He  could  not  become  paler  than  he 
already  was  ;  but  his  lips  quivered  as  he  bent 
over  Marguerite,  and  heard  again  her  inno- 
cent love  for  himself  told  in  the  vague,  un- 
conscious language  of  delirium,  ever  min- 
gled with  her  father's  name  and  a  dull  re- 
membrance of  her  recent  loss. 

"  He  loves  me,  dear  father — Philip  loves 
me.  I  shall  be  his  little  wife— no,  he  is 
married — that  can  never  be.  Lady  Clara — 
lie  told  me  all,  I  must  not  love  him.  But 
then,  the  storm — the  waves — father,  I  could 
not  help  it !  death  was  coming,  and  I  told 
him.  It  is  over  now — it  is  all  over ;  he  has 
left,  and  1  shall  remain  with  you.  I  may 
love  you,  father ; "  and  she  tried  to  raise  her 
Lands  as  though  to  clasp  his  neck.  ««  Oh  ! 
not  so  pale — those  dark,  dark  streaks,  fa- 
ther; you  are  leaving  me — this  is  death. 
The  waves  —  Philip,  save  him  —  save  us 
both  !  "  and  then  the  words  came  more  wild- 
ly still,  until  he  could  not  distinguish  what 
she  said. 

Worn  out  by  her  long  watching,  Manon 
at  length  slept  heavily  in  the  large  chair  by 
the  bedside  ;  and  throughout  the  remainder 
of  that  night  Philip  tended  her  alone.  Again 
and  again  had  he  to  listen  to  words  such  as 
those  she  had  just  uttered ;  hear  his  own 
name  whispered  with  meek  reproaches  "  that 
he  had  made  her  love  me,"  then  watch  her 
parched  lips  writhe  in  sudden  terror,  as  the 
recollection  of  the  storm,  or  of  her  father's 
death  returned,  and  vainly  strive  to  calm 
her  incoherent  cries  for  help.  In  all  she  had 
a  strange  sense  of  his  presence.  If  for  a 
moment  he  quitted  her  side,  her  face  turned 
beseechingly  in  the  direction  whither  he 
moved,  and  she  would  extend  her  helpless 
hands  towards  him.  It  seemed  to  soothe 
her  when  he  leant  over  her  and  whispered 
gentle  words,  although  she  could  n«.(  have 
understood  their  meaning;  and  when  to- 
wards morning,  worn  out  by  fever  and  de- 
lirium, she  sank  to  sleep — the  sleep  which 
saved  her  life — Philip's  arm  supported  her. 
and  her  Hushed  face  was  still  upturned  to 
his. 

Her  longhair  had  become  unloosened  dur- 
ing the  ni^'lit,  and  hung  in  damp  and  heavy 
masses  upon  her  shoulders;  one  hand  lay 


helplessly  on  the  coverlid  of  the  bed,  the 
other  was  thrown  upwards  over  the  pillow  in 
the  child-like  attitude  of  sleep.  She  looked 
so  pure,  so  perfectly  innocent  as  she  lav 
thus,  that  tears  rose  into  Philip's  eyes,  more 
like  those  of  a  father  for  his  child  than  for  a 
lover  for  a  mistress.  He  was  not  a  man 
easily  moved  to  tears,  but  Marguerite  had 
stolen  into  the  inmost  depths  of  his  heart. 
He  loved  her  as  no  human  being  can  love 
but  once  ;  and  as  he  bent  over  her  through  the 
silent  hours  of  this  night  alone,  the  dim  star- 
light that  stole  through  the  open  window  his 
onlv  witness,  the  best  emotions  of  Earns- 
elifFe's  nature  were  stirred.  The  sinless 
child  whose  head  was  pillowed  upon  his 
breast  seemed  to  him  as  a  symbol  of  everv- 
thing  pure  and  perfect ;  and  as  he  bent  down 
over  her  unconscious  face,  thoughts  returned 
to  him  that  he  had  not  known  for  years. 

He  thought  of  his  early  childhood,  when 
he  too  was  innocent,  and  his  young  mother 
had  hung  lovingly  over  his  little  bed  ;  he  re- 
called her  sweet  face  as  she  kissed  him  for 
the  night ;  and  thought  with  a  pang,  that  no 
pure  kiss  had  ever  blessed  him  since.  He 
remembered  her  love  for  his  father — how 
they  used  to  sit  together  by  the  evening  fire, 
hand  clasped  in  hand,  watching  him  as  he 
played  at  their  feet — and  felt  that  such  a  life 
would  to  him  too  have  been  happiness.  '•  If 
she  had  been  my  wife,"  he  added.  And  at 
that  moment  Marguerite  stirred  slightly  in 
her  sleep,  and  murmured  "  Philip  !  " 

When  she  awoke  at  length,  after  many 
hours'  deep  sleep,  the  fever  had  left  her. 
All  that  now  remaired  was  extreme  weak- 
ness, and  in  a  few  days  she  was  well  enough 
for  Manon  to  lift  her  to  a  couch  by  the  win- 
dow, where  she  might  breathe  the  fresh  air. 
As  yet,  she  had  spoken  very  little.  Her 
mind  was  quite  clear;  and  Manon  could  see 
that  she  was  fully  aware  of  her  father's  death, 
for  she  never  alluded  to  him,  nor  to  his  ab- 
sence from  her  room.  She  was  conscious  of 
that,  and  of  everything;  but  we  are  merci- 
\illy  organised  that  our  own  bodily  weak- 
ness takes  away  half  the  poignancy  from 
sorrow ;  and  as  Marguerite,  feeble  and  help- 
ess,  lay  thinking  of  her  father's  death,  it 
was  more  with  a  feeling  of  thankfulness  that 
ie  had  pone  to  rest,  and  a  wish  that  she  too 
night  follow  him,  than  with  anything  of  grief 
or  his  loss. 

From  the  time  of  her  improvement,  Philip 
never  entered  her  room  ;  and  on  the  second 
lay  after  the  fever  left  her  he  departed  for 

ST ,  where  he  took  up  his   quarters  at  the 

•ustie  eountrv  inn.  ll  Marguerite  missed 
presence,  she  made  no  allu.-mn  to  him; 
she  asked  tin  questions,  she  showed  no  inter- 
•st  when  Manon  accidentally  mentioned  his 
lame — everv  kind  of  feeling  seemed  numbed 
within  her.  lint  about  a  week  after  her  eri>is, 
>ii  a  warm,  sof)  August  morning,  her  nurse 
tad  carried  her  to  the  eoneh  by  the  open 
window,  and  the  sight  of  the  old  familiar 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


107 


garden  without,  and  the  feeling  of  the  fra- 
grant air,  laden  with  the  sound  of  birds  and 
insects,  brought  for  the  first  time  a  look  of 
life  into  her  wan  face. 

"  Support  me  higher,  Manon,  I  wish  to 
see  my  white  rose."  It  had  been  her  father's 
favorite  rose,  from  which  every  summer 
morning  she  brought  him  a  blossom.  "  How 
fresh  it  looks,  they  are  not  withered.  I 
should  like  some  flowers,  I  think." 

"You  have  some  already,  ma  mie ;  but 
you  were  not  well  enough  to  look  at  them. 
See  ;  "  and  Manon  brought  an  exquisite  bou- 
quet, which  stood  in  water  upon  the  table. 
*'  All  fresh  this  morning." 

A  faint  flush  stole  to  the  pale  cheek. 
"  Give  them  to  me.  Ah  !  they  are  very 
sweet."  She  placed  them  in  her  bosom. 
"Manon,  are  you  quite  sure  that  I  shall 
die  ?  " 

•'  Die  !  Ma  mie,  ma  cherie,  why  should 
you  talk  of  dying?  You  have  been  very  ill, 
but  the  fever  has  left  you  now;  and  the  doc- 
tor said  this  morning  that  you  will  soon  be  as 
blooming  as  ever." 

Marguerite  turned  away  her  face,  and  was 
silent;  but  the  nurse  saw  large  tears  steal- 
ing down  her  cheek,  and  she  let  her  weep 
on,  for  Thibault  said  it  would  be  good  for 
her  to  shed  tears.  After  a  time  she  looked 
at  Manon,  and  said — "  How  worn  you  are, 
poor  Manon  !  You  look  as  though  you  had 
never  slept  for  weeks.  Have  you  watched 
and  nursed  me  all  alone  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  alone,  darling.  When  you 
were  very  ill,  Monsieur  Earnscliffe "  (the 
trembling  fingers  clasped  tighter  round  her 
flowers) — "  Monsieur  Earnscliffe  would  watch 
by  you  too,  and  during  the  worst  night  he 
never  left  you.  Ce  pauvre  monsieur!  he 
looks  as  pale  as  you,  ma  mie  ;  but,  then,  he 
never  had  much  color." 

Marguerite  was  not  pale  now.  The  old 
bright  flush  came  over  her  face  when  she 
heard  that  Philip  had  watched  her  in  her  ill- 
ness ;  and,  looking  once  more  towards  the 
sea,  she  said,  softly,  "I  am  so  glad  that  I 
shall  live." 

Poor  Manon  was  delighted  at  these  words, 
and  at  her  improved  looks.  Ever  since  her 
master's  death  she  had  been  in  hourly  dread 
that  her  darling  child  was  to  be  taken  also  ; 
and  now,  in  her  sudden  thankfulness,  she  al- 
most forgot  her  late  great  sorrow. 

"  You  will  get  strong,  my  child,  quite 
strong.  We  will  carry  you  to  the  terrace  in 
a  few  days,  and  give  you  nourishing  things, 
and  make  you  so  well  and  blooming — better 
even  than  you  were  before  your  illness  ;  "  and 
her  honest  face  was  all  beaming  with  happi- 
ness. "  See,  there  is  monsieur  on  the  ter- 
race now.  He  told  me  he  should  remain 
awhile,  when  he  gave  me  the  flowers  for 
you." 

'*  Remain?  where  is  he  then?  has  he  left 
Kersaint  ?  " 

Manou   explained  that  he  had  gone  to 


N ,  but  came  ovor  every  day  to  inquire 

for  mademoiselle ;  and  then  she  lifted  Mar- 
guerite on  the  couch,  so  that  she  could  see 
the  terrace.  The  old  soft  expression  stole 
into  her  eyes  as  she  watched  Earnscliffe 
slowly  pacing  up  and  down,  and  the  color 
lingered  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  well  like  this,  dear  Manon.  If 
you  have  anything  to  do,  you  can  leave  me 
awhile.  I  shall  be  happy  alone." 

Manon  had  much  to  do  in  her  neglected 
household ;  and  seeing  the  little  invalid  so 
refreshed  by  the  open  air,  she  thought  she 
might  safely  ,go  down-stairs  to  her  work. 
She  returned  every  few  minutes,  but  found 
Marguerite  each  time  in  the  same  position, 
and  saying  "  she  was  not  tired  yet."  In 
about  half  an  hour,  however,  Earnscliffe 
finished  his  walk,  and  returned  slowly  to- 
wards the  house.  He  did  not  think  of  Mar- 
guerite being  up,  and  never  looked  towards 
her  window,  little  knowing  how  anxiously 
her  eyes  were  following  him.  When  he  wa:j 
quite  out  of  sight  she  called  to  Manon  :  "I 
am  weary  of  sitting  up,  the  air  feels  so  chilly, 
and  the  sky  is  cloudy — take  me  back  to 
my  bed."  And  when  she  was  placed  there, 
she  turned  her  face  upon  the  pillow,  and  did 
not  speak  again  for  hours. 

That  very  morning,  while  Marguerite 
watched  him,  Earnscliffe  had  taken  his  final 
resolution,  to  see  her  once  more,  when  she 
had  sufficient  strength  for  the  interview,  and 
then  quit  her  for  ever.  No  vain  sophistry 
of  staying  to  console  her  in  her  loneliness 
led  him  astray  now.  Her  father  had  died 
asking  him  to  be  her  friend,  and,  with  the  ac- 
knowledged feelings  of  both  towards  the 
other,  the  only  way  of  fulfilling  this  request 
was  to  part  from  her  at  once.  "  She  is  too 
young  for  the  wound  to  be  very  deep,"  he 
thought.  Yet,  even  as  he  did  so,  her  ear- 
nest face  rose  before  him  as  she  said,  **  I 
shall  never  change,  I  shall  never  forget  you  !  " 
and — strange  inconsistency  of  our  nature— 
Earnscliffe  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  in  disbe- 
lieving his  own  words. 

He  had  told  the  doctor  that  he  was  mar- 
ried, during  Marguerite's  illness,  thinking  it 
right  for  her  that  their  mutual  position  should 
be  understood  in  the  neighborhood ;  and 
something  that  he  had  either  seen  or  guessed 
from  Philip's  manner  made  the  kind-hearted 
Frenchman  form  conclusions  not  far  from  the 
truth ;  while  he  fully  concurred  in  the  pro- 
priety of  EarnsclifFe's  leaving  Kersaint. 
They  both  agreed  that  it  would  be  well  for 
Marguerite  to  remain  for  several  weeks,  at 
least,  in  her  old  home,  during  which  time 
Thibault  and  his  wife  could  watch  over  her, 
before  going  to  her  English  relations.  And, 
indeed,  she  was  now  so  weak,  that  some 
time  would  be  absolutely  needful  for  her  to 
recover  sufficient  strength  for  the  journey. 

Mr.  Danby's  letter  arrived  in  due  time, 
and  Earnscliffe  was  not  greatly  prepossessed 
by  its  tenor.  Although  the 'note  to  Mar- 


108 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFB. 


guerite  was  kind,  there  was  a  constraint 
about  it,  and  an  absence  of  all  expressions 
of  sympathy  from  the  women  of  the  family, 
\vhidi  made  him  augur  ill  for  Marguerite's 
happiness  in  her  future  home.  The  letter  to 
Earnscliffe  himself  was  plain  and  business- 
like. "  Mr.  Danby  regretted  that  he  eould 
not  be  in  lime  for  his  cousin's  funeral  ;  and 
also  that  circumstances1'  —  he  did  not  mention 
what  these  were  —  "  prevented  him  coming 
himself  for  Miss  St.  John  ;  but  that,  as 
soon  as  she  was  able  to  travel,  he  hoped 
some  of  her  friends  would  accompany  her  to 
St.  Malo,  and  he  would  meet  her  at  South- 
ampton." He  then  added  that,  in  his  una- 
voidable absence,  he  should  be  glad  if  Mr. 
EarnsclifFe  would  read  his  late  cousin's  will, 
and  make  him  acquainted  with  the  contents. 
44  Through  an  agent  in  Paris  he  should  ar- 
range for  the  sale  of  the  property  of  Ker- 
saint;  and  he  remained  Mr.  Earnseliffe's 
obedient  servant.1' 

Philip  flung  down  the  letter  upon  the  table. 
He  formed  a  worse  opinion  of  its  writer 
than  was  altogether  just  ;  and  pictured  to 
himself  Marguerite,  afterher  free,  unfettered 
life,  and  the  sole  companionship  of  one  so 
refined  as  her  father,  living  in  some  close 
London  street,  and  associating  with  the 
family  of  a  retired  tradesman.  For  Danby's 
hand  was  a  clear,  round  text  ;  the  paper  he 
employed  blue  letter  sheet;  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  whole  epistle  unlike  any  Philip 
had  ever  received  in  his  life,  with  the  ex- 
ce[  tion  of  duns  or  communications  from  his 
bookseller.  4<  And  I  am  unable  to  save  her 
from  these  people,*1  he  thought.  "  Would 
God  that  I  were  free  !  " 

Marguerite  gained  strength  daily  now; 
and  in  another  week  Manon  announced  to 
Earnscliffe  that  she  was  well  enough  to  see 
him.  The  old  servant's  eyes  had  not  been 
closed  all  this  time  ;  indeed,  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  any  one  to  have  seen  Philip  under 
the  circumstances  that  she  had  done,  without 
discovering  his  feelings  towards  Marguerite  ; 
and,  ignorant  as  yet  of  his  marriage,  she 
fervently  hoped  that  her  darling  might  be- 
come his  wife,  and  be  spared  the  miserv  of 
having  to  live  among  strangers.  Of  herself 
she  never  thought.  Of  her  loneliness,  her 
poverty,  -when  Marguerite  should  be  gone  — 
for  she  had  no  relations  and  had  saved  but 
little  money  —  all  this  was  nothing  eompared 
to  Marguerite's  welfare.  She  had  always 
been  so  completely  treated  as  one,  of  the 
family,  that  .she  felt  herself  aetuallv  one  of 
its  members,  not  merely  a  hired  servant, 
whom  a  death  or  a  marriage  could  at  any 
time  throw  upon  the  world  —  as  was  now  the 


44  She  will  see  you  at  once,  monsieur;  she 

is  looking  quite  herself  (his  morning.  " 

Philip  had  shrunk  from  the  interview  as 
long  as  was  i-ov-iMc.  IJrx<»l\ing  that  it 
ihoald  be  the  last  —  he  yet  had  not.  courage 
for  the  actual  parting  with  the  only  being  on 


earth  whom  he  had  ever  really  loved,  and 
when  Manon  proposed  that  he  should  see  the 
invalid,  had  each  day  answered,  "  that  ha 
would  rather  wait  until  there  was  no  risk  of 
the  excitement  harming  her."  But  now  he 
could  delay  no  more.  Marguerite  herself 
wished  to  see  him ;  and  as  he  followed  Ma- 
non through  the  long  winding  passages, 
Philip's  heart  throbbed  within  him,  as  though 
he  were  some  boy-lover  awaiting  his  mis- 
tress, rather  than  a  man  of  the  world  who 
expected  an  interview  with  a  girl  of  sixteen! 

44  Viola  Monsieur  Philippe,  ma  mie  !  " 

Marguerite  was  lying  on  a  couch  by  the 
open  window,  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
which  gave  additional  whiteness  to  her  com- 
plexion ;  but  at  Philip's  name  the  blood 
rushed  crimson  into  her  'face  for  a  second, 
then  retreated,  and  she  felt  her  whole  framo 
turn  cold. 

"  Marguerite  !  " — Monsieur  !  " 

Manon  closed  the  door  and  left  them, 
never  doubting  that  when  she  returned  they 
would  be  affianced  lovers.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence;  then  Philip  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  kissed  her 
hands. 

"  You  have  suffered,  my  child — you  are 
pale  and  changed." 

44  Monsieur,  he  is  gone." 

"  Call  me  Philip,  Marguerite.  This  is 
the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet — you  must 
not  be  cold  with  me  now.1' 

44  The  last  time  !  Not — not,''  she  falter- 
ed, 44  the  very  last.  Do  not  leave  me  yet. 
Think  of  my  utter  loneliness  without  my  fa- 
ther," her  voice  choked.  "  Philip,  think  of 
his  last  words  to  you  !  " 

44  I  have  thought  of  them — day  and  night 
since  the  solemn  moment  when  they  were 
spoken." 

44  Yet  you  leave  me  !  And  he  asked  you 
to  be  my  friend." 

Philip  released  the  little  fluttering  hand  he 
held  within  his  own,  and  then  seated  him- 
self by  her  side. 

"  Marguerite,"  he  said  gravely,  "your 
words  recall  tome  my  own  reproach.  When 
your  father  spoke  to  me  as  lie  did,  he  was 
ignorant  of  my  marriage  ;  he  knew  only  my 
admiration — my  feelings  towards  you — for 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  conceal ;  but 
he  knew  not  the  grave  di>lmnor  of  which  [ 
had  been  guilty  in  concealing  my  marriage." 

11  Dishonor!  Oh,  Philip,  that  is  no  word 
for  you  !  " 

44  It  expresses  my  conduct,  and  is  there- 
fore, a  fitting  one.  This  dishonor " 

"No,  no,"  she.  cried,  eagerly.  44  You 
had  told  me  of  your  marriage  before — be- 
fore—1 

11  1'icfure  I  spoke  to  you  of  love — yes. 
P>ut  I  loved  you  from  the  first  hour  that,  [ 
met  vou.  And  while  vour  innocence,  Mar- 
guerite, rendered  your  misplaced  love  hlauie- 
leM,  mine  from  the  beginning  was  guilty. 
.Nothing  can  exonerate  me  to  myself,  or 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


109 


lessen  my  own  feelings  of  self-reproach  :  and 
the  only  way — a  very  poor  one— in  which  I 
can  carry  out  your  father's  trust,  is  that  on 
•which  I  have  resolved — to  leave  you  at  once 
and  for  ever  !  " 

He  said  all  this  very  fast  and  resolutely, 
and  Marguerite's  eyes  filled  with  heavy  tears 
as  she  bent  aside  her  head :  then  both  were 
silent.  Philip  dared  not  trust  himself  to 
speak,  scarcely  to  look  at  the  sweet,  sad 
profile  turned  away  from  him.  A  torrent  of 
love  was  ready  to  burst  from  his  lips,  yet  he 
must  restrain  it,  and  remember,  now  in  her 
liour  of  desolation,  tha*t  it  was  dishonor  for 
him  even  to  think  of  love ;  so  he  sat  moodi- 
ly, his  arms  folded,  and  his  lips  compressed 
with  their  sternest  expression.  At  length, 
Marguerite  reached  her  hand  to  some  flowers 
Philip  had  sent  her,  which  stood  by  her  side, 
and  raised  them  to  her  lips. 

**  I  shall  never  care  for  them  again  when 
you  are  gone." 

The  mute  appeal,  the  childish  submission 
of  her  voice,  were  too  much  for  Earnscliffe. 
He  was  on  his  knees,  and  his  arm  around 
her,  in  a  second.  "  Oh,  Marguerite!  must 
1  leave  you  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  her — his  dark  eyes  soft- 
ening, and  his  cheek  flushed  with  all  the  pas- 
sion of  his  impulsive  nature  ;  never  was  his 
face  so  dangerously  beautiful  to  Marguerite 
before. 

"  It  is  hard,  Philip.  I  have  loved  no  one 
else  in  the  world  but  my  father,  who  is  gone 
from  me,  and  you.  Must  we,  indeed,  part? 
Think  what  parting  is  !  Long  years  of  life 
— cold  winter  days — sweet,  warm  summer; 
but  not  together !  I  can  hardly  bear  to 
think  of  my  life  without  you;  it  seems  so 
long  and  objectless.  If11 — she  glanced  at 
him  timidly — "  I  might  be  anything  else  to 
you — I  know  that  I  can  never  be  your  wife, 
but  your  companion,  your  friend — I  should 
give  no  trouble ;  I  would  follow  you — [ 
•would  care  for  you  when  you  were  tired  of 
the  great  world,  and  you  would  be  glad  to 
rwturn  home  to  your  poor  little  Marguerite 
— Philip,  may  I  be  this  ?  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  and  leant  forward  for  his  re- 
ply, until  her  hair  rested  upon  his  cheek. 

Had  Marguerite  been  anything  but  what 
she  was,  Earnscliffe  would  never  have  passed 
through  this  fiery  ordeal  of  temptation — for 
he  was  a  man,  and  no  faultless  one.  And, 
somewhat  lax  as  were  his  conventional  prin- 
ciples, somewhat  undefined  his  religion,  it  is 
doubtful  if  an  abstract  idea  of  right  would 
have  prevented  him  from  making  Marguerite 
his,  and  thus  seeking  to  drown,  in  the  love 
of  her  fresh  nature,  all  the  past  disappoint- 
ments of  his  life.  But  her  innocence,  her 
absolute  and  entire  ignorance  of  the  import, 
even,  of  her  own  words,  was  her  shield  ;  and 
a  stronger  one  with  a  man  like  Earnscliffe, 
than  all  the  barriers  with  which  society  at- 
tempts to  hem  in  the  frail  daughters  of  fash- 
ion. 


"  Marguerite, "he  answered,  hoarsely,  and 
as  though  with  a  strong  effort  over  himself, 
'  some  day,  when  you  are  older,  you  will 
ook  back  upon  this  moment  and  pity  me. 
You  know  not  the  torture  your  own  words 
cause  me ;  you  know  not — God  forbid  you 
ever  should  ! — the  temptation  through  which 
I  am  passing.  Alone  in  the  world,  thirsting 
for  love  that  I  have  never  found,  you  offer 
me  yours, — yours  in  all  the  fullness  of  your 
youth  and  beauty  ;  a  very  heaven  is  within  my 
grasp,  and  I  must  reject  it.  And  the  after- 
recollection  that  I  have  acted  with  honor  will 
ill  efface  the  agony  of  this  mo  mmt.  You 
love  me,  as  you  can  love,  in  jwur  childish 
simplicity ;  you  grieve  to  part  from  me  ;  but 
you  cannot  understand  the  bitter  sorrow  of 
my  breast — the  strength  of  my  love."  And, 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  Philip  sobbed 
aloud. 

Marguerite  trembled  at  this  strong  emo- 
tion. As  Philip  said,  she  was  too  young  to 
fathom  the  nature  of  his  passion  ;  and  the 
sight  of  that  strong,  proud  man  weeping  like 
a  child  filled  her  with  a  kind  of  terror.  She 
turned  her  face  upon  the  pillow,  and  waited, 
cold  and  silent,  until  tho  paroxysm  was 
passed.  Then  E'irnscliffe  uncovered  his 
face,  and  rose  slowly ;  nhe  was  deadly  pale, 
and  his  features  were  set,  almost  hard,  in 
their  expression. 

•*  Marguerite,  good-bye." 
"Not  yet,  Philip;  I  cannot  bear  it.     At 
least  vou  will  write  to  me  ?  " 

•*  Xo  ;  no  half  measures.     You  are  not  to 
be  mine — forget  me.1'     His  voice  was  quite 
stern  as  he  turned  away  from  her. 
"  And  you  leave  me  in  anger?" 
"  In  anger!  my  life — my  love." 
He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  he  pressed  her 
to  his  breast,  he  kissed  her  hair — her  brow — 
her  lips,  he  called  her  by  names  never  to  be 
forgotten  until  Marguerite's  last  pulse  should 
beat.     Then  he  tore  himself  away. 

"Philip,  I  shall  die  " — every  vestige  of 
color  had  ebbed  from  her  face,  and  her  small 
hands  were  clenched  tightly  together — "  £ 
shall  die  without  you.  But  if  you  think  it 
right  to  leave  me — go.  Let  me  hear  from 
you  once — let  me  have  one  letter  of  yours  to 
love  and  treasure — and  I  will*  be  content. 
Proaiise  me  that." 

He  promised  her.  Again  he  held  her  to 
his  bosom,  and  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck.  She  told  him  she  would  never 
love  any  other  but  him  ;  that,  distant,  she 
would  pray  for  him.  She  said  a  hundred 
things  which,  from  any  lips  but  hers,  might 
yet  have  made  Earnscliffe  swerve.  Then 
gently  she  quitted  him  !  " 

"  Leave  me,  Philip  ;  I  am  stronger  now — 
leave  me  !  " 

He  turned,  and  obeyed  her  without  a  word. 
She  saw  him  leave  the  room,  heard  his  hasty 
step  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  then  the 
heavy  house  door  open  and  shut  after  him, 
heard  his  steps  still  in  the  court-yard,  then  * 


110 


PHILIP  EARttSCLIFFE. 


grow  fainter  and  fainter,  and  was  gone.  Am 
the  sickening  reality  of  her  desolation  over 
came  her. 

"  Philip,  you  have  left  me  ! "' 

Had  he  heard  that  tone — had  he  seen  the 
anguish  of  her  young  face,  the  hopeless  mis- 
ery in  which  she  sank  back  upon  the  couch 
white,  and  cold,  and  tearless — even  then  his 
purpose  might  have  failed  him  !  But  Philip 
returned  no  more ;  and  that  evening,  when 
the  twilight  gathered  over  Kersaint,  anc 
Marguerite,  attended  only  by  her  faithfu 
servant,  was  weeping  out  her  very  heart  in 
the  same  room  where  Philip  left  her,  he  was 
already  far  on  his  way  to  Paris. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

LOVE  and  its  sorrows  undoubtedly  weigh 
more  lastingly  upon  women  than  men.  No 
man  ever  yet  broke  his  heart  for  love,  al- 
though some  few  may  bear  the  scars  of  dis- 
appointment to  their  grave.  The  world, 
ambition — a  thousand  channels  are  open  to 
turn  the  mind  from  what,  after  all,  is  more 
a  pastime  with  most  men  than  a  serious  oc- 
cupation ;  and,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
other  loves — lighter  ones,  it  may  be — spring 
up  to  replace  the  first  and  pure  one.  But 
women,  in  solitude  and  tears,  hug  this  kind 
of  grief  to  their  hearts ;  and.  from  their  lack 
of  any  other  engrossing  pursuit,  think  un- 
ceasingly upon  the  forbidden  fruit  whose 
taste  once  changed  their  life  into  a  paradise, 
until  it  becomes  even  sweeter  in  recollection 
than  reality.  Men  may  feel  as  much,  but 
they  show 'it  differently;  and  had  Marguer- 
ite been  able  to  see  Philip,  three  days  after 
he  left  her,  at  a  large  dinner  in  Paris  more 
gay  and  sparkling  than  ever,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  accused  him.  and  unjustly,  of  for- 
getting her. 

Philip  found  many  bachelor  friends  in 
Paris  on  his  arrival — young  London  men, 
who  contrive  to  form  a  society  of  their  own 
then;  when  all  the  Paris  world  is  in  the  coun- 
try— and  he  entered  into  their  life  with  a  fe- 
verish  kind  of  desire  to  escape  from  him.-el!' 
and  his  own  thoughts.  The  St.  Legers,  too, 
li:i]ip"iii;d  to  be  in  Paris  at  the  time;  and  the 
idea,  in  itself,  of  being  near  his  wife  was 
ciuiM^li  to  goad  him  almost  to  madness  in 
his  pn-M-iit  excited  iiuiiMl,  and  make  him  lly 
to  any  dissipation  for  forget  fulness. 

Let  NTS  from  England  awaited  him.  lie 
had  given  his  aiMre.s.s  at  Kersaint  to  no  one; 
but  a  host  of  notes,  left  at  his  lodgings  in 
town  niter  his  hasty  departure,  with  one  or 
two  kind  letters  from  old  Miles,  had  been 
forwarded  to  the  I'.in>  au'ent  of  his  publisher 
as  he  directed  before  leaving  England.  There 
were  ;i  do/en  despairing  notes  from  id.-e 
Elmslie,  full  of  regrets  that  he  should  have 


misinterpreted  her,  and  reproaches  at  his  ab- 
rupt departure,  et  cetera-,  but  Philip  could 
scarcely  read  them  through,  and  flung  aside 
the  last  without  finishing  it  to  the  end.  Had 
he  done  so,  a  certain  tone  of  sincerity  in  her 
hints  at  some  desperate  purpose  might  have 
struck  him ;  but,  after  the  love  of  Marguer- 
ite St.  John,  he  was  in  no  mood  for  the  sen- 
timentalities of  Miss  Rose ;  and  even  a  few 
kind  lines  from  little  Fridoline  were  thrown, 
half-read,  into  the  pile  of  letters,  carelessly 
torn  up,  which  lay  on  Philip's  table  the  day 
he  left  Paris. 

For  it  was  in  vain  he  strove  to  forget  Mar- 
guerite. Her  girlish  figure,  her  sweet,  lov- 
ing face  rose  beside  him  continually  ;  and  after 
a  weary  fortnight  of  sleepless  nights  and  hea- 
vy days,  Philip  started  for  Switzerland-— pale, 
haggard,  and  out  of  health,  and  having  of- 
fended all  his  old  friends  with  his  querulous 
moods  and  odd  outbreaks  of  temper. 

The  resting  place  he  chose  was  a  little 
hamlet  nearMeran.  It  was  now  the  time  of 
early  vintage  ;  and  in  those  southern  nights, 
when  the  purple  mountains  stood  in  their 
clear  softness  upon  the  cloudless  sky,  and 
the  silence  so  peculiarly  solemn  among 
mountains  was  around,  EarnsclifFe's  thoughts 
became  calmer  than  they  had  been  for  weeks. 
The  anxiety  and  excitement  he  had  gone 
through,  during  the  time  of  Mr.  St.  John's 
death,  and  Marguerite's  illness,  had  physical- 
ly weakened  him;  but,  as  the  mountain  air 
restored  his  old  elasticity  of  frame,  his  mind 
returned  more  into  its  habitual  state,  until, 
at  length,  he  was  able  soberly  to  reason  with 
himself  upon  his  last  and  deepest  disappoint- 
ment, and  look  forward  to  life  from  this  fresh 
starting-post;  for  every  real  disappointment 
is  an  era  from  whence  a  man  must,  in  some 
measure,  start  anew,  either  for  better  or 
worse. 

He  lingered  among  the  Italian  lakes,  still 
shunning  every  English  person  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  and  spending  whole,  days, 
and  often  nights,  in  an  open  boat  upon  the 
water,  alone,  and  silent ;  l>ut,  perhaps,  once 
nore  happier  then  he  would  have  chosen  to 
relieve.  In  the  autumnal  nights,  the  air 
icavy  with  voluptuous  odors  from  orange  and 
nyrtle  groves  on  shore,  under  the  rich,  deep 
sky  of  the  south — and  still  with  Marguerite 
n  fancy  beside  him,  and  her  soft  hand  in  his 
—  I  am  disinclined  to  think  that  Mr.  Earns- 
•lill'e  was  utterly  miserable.  His  youth  was 
,'et  too  strong  within  him  lor  beauty,  \vheth- 
•r  human  or  that  of  Nature,  to  have  lost  all 
ts  old  power.  Although  his  truest  love  was 
_nme  fur  ever,  and  the  world  and  ambition 
vere  no  longer  what  they  had  been,  his 
emperameiit  was  still  a  poet's,  and  too  keen- 
v  alive  to  external  enjoyment  liir  existence 
o  be  as  really  dark  as  he  hail  pictured  it. 

At  Milan  lie  found  a  long,  kin. 1  letter  I'roiu 
Veville,  full  of  busy  projects  for  their  CIIMI- 
n ir  winter  together;  and  late  one  I>eccm- 
bJr  night,  Philip  first  saw  the  spectral  dome 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


Ill 


of  St.  Peter's  loom  before  him  in  the  star- 
light. 


CHAPTER  XXYII 

BUT  with  Marguerite  life  went  differently. 
She  wept  for  Philip  until  she  could  literally 
weep  no  more — wept  with  an  intensity  of 
grief  unusual  in  one  so  young,  and  rendered 
more  touching  by  her  perfect  gentleness  and 
submission  of  character.  The  doctor  wished 
to  remove  her  from  Kersaint  to  his  own  house 
for  a  few  weeks  prior  to  her  departure  for 
England,  but  this  she  so  earnestly  opposed, 
that  he  was  forced  to  let  her  have  her  own 
wish  and  remain. 

As  the  time  wore  on  when  she  was  to  leave 
France,  she  scarcely  spent  an  hour  of  the 
day  within  doors.  Her  bodily  strength  had 
somewhat  returned,  and  she  would  sit  alone 
among  the  rocks  for  hours,  or  wander  over 
the  walks  she  had  taken  with  Philip,  and 
pluck  the  few  autumn  flowers  she  could  find 
to  be  dried  and  carried  with  her  to  England. 
In  the  evening  Manon  made  her  a  bright 
wood  fire  in  the  library,  as  in  old  days ;  and 
she  would  remain  there  for  two  or  three  hours, 
never  reading  or  working,  but  sitting  on  her 
low  stool,  gazing  in  the  fire,  her  head  resting 
on  the  arm  of  her  father's  empty  chair,  with 
Bello  crouching  by  her  side. 

Marguerite  had  written  several  times  to 
her  cousin  in  reply  to  his  letters  ;  and  begged 
that  her  father's  books,  and  the  old  pictures 
might  not  be  sold.  "  The  only  things  I  care 
to  keep,11  she  had  said.  And  Dan  by  promised 
they  should  be  sent  after  her  to  England.  But 
she  looked  upon  her  father's  dog  so  entirely 
in  the  light  of  a  friend,  that  it  never  occurred 
to  her  that  he  could  be  left  behind,  and  had 
not  even  mentioned  to  Danby  that  she 
would  bring  a  large  deer  hound  to  his 
house. 

The  evening  before  her  departure  arrived, 
and  as  she  sat,  tearless  and  wan,  before  the 
fire,  thinking  drearily  of  the  morrow  and  of 
her  long  journey  alone,  poor  Bello  suddenly 
gave  one  of  his  quick,  impatient  barks,  and 
licked  her  hand ;  looking  up  into  her  face 
at  the  s.ime  time,  as  though  to  show  that  he 
could  understand  and  sympathise  with  her 
sorrow.  "  Bello,"  she  said,  laying  her 
arm  round  his  neck,  "  I  must  not  forget 
you.  You  are  the  only  thing  left  to  me." 

"And  I,  mademoiselle?"  exclaimed  Ma- 
non, who  sat  watching  her  with  the  devouring, 
eager  look  of  a  mother  about  to  be  parted 
from  her  own  child.  «*  What  will  be  left  to 
me  ?  " 

"My  poor  Manon!  But,  at  least,  you 
will  not  leave  France ;  you  will  even  remain 
at  Kersamt  until — until— the  old  place  is  sold, 


and  afterwards  you  are  to  live  at  Jean  d'Au- 
bret's  cottage,  where  you  will  have  the  bright 
sea  before  you,  and  even  see  the  roofs  of  Ker- 
sairit  in  the  distance.  Oh  !  you  will  be  better 
off  than  me." 

'*  Mademoiselle,  you  have  been  too  jrener- 
ous,  and  by  your  noble  father's  recollection  of 
me,  and  with  my  own  savings,  I  shall  be  well 
off,  and  never  require  to  work  again.  I  ana 
grateful  to  the  bon  Dieu  for  his  mercy  !  But, 
child,  what  is  this  if  I  am  to  lose  you  ?  For 
sixteen  years,  little  one,  I  have  nursed  and 
watched,  and  not  one  night  or  day  been 
without  you.  Sixteen  years — rand  after  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  alone.  I  shall  never  hear 
your  voice — never  look  upon  your  face  again. 
Oh,  child  !  I  did  not  think  I  was  to  lose  you 
thus.  If  things  had  been  as  I  hoped, 

and " 

*'  Manon,"  interrupted  Marguerite,  has- 
tily, "  I  know  what  you  would  say;  do  not 
give  me  the  pain  of  hearing  it.  Speak  of 
nothing  but  your  love  for  me  to-night.  God 
knows  I  need  to  be  told  of  it !  I  am  not 
likely  to  meet  with  such  love  again ;  "  and, 
going  to  her  side,  she  laid  her  head  upon 
Manon's  shoulder,  and  was  silent.  Her 
grief  seemed  now  of  that  dull,  heavy  nature 
which  cannot  admit  of  the  relief  of  tears. 

"  It  pains  you,  ma  mie,"  pursued  Manon, 
'*  that  I  should  speak  of  ce  monsieur,  but  I 
will  do  so  nevertheless.  How  can  I  tell  that 
you  will  never  meet  him  again,  or  others  like 
him,  in  his  own  country?  and  I  choose  to 
warn  my  darling  against  such  men.  I  am  a 
poor,  rough  peasant ;  I  know  little  of  great 
people,  and,  Heaven  be  praised !  less  of 
love ;  but  I  could  not  be  your  father's  ser- 
vant for  twenty  years  without  learning  what 
the  honor  of  a  gentleman  is  like — and  Mon- 
sieur Earnscliffe  was  not  so." 

"  Manon,  you  forget  yourself! "  inter- 
rupted Marguerite,  starting  to  her  feet,  and 
drawing  up  her  stately  young  figure  to  its 
full  height.  "  You  forget  yourself  strange- 
ly in  presuming  to  judge  of  Mr.  Earnscliffe 
or  his  actions  !  I  knew  long  ago — of— of— 
that  he  was  married ;  and,  even  if  he  had 
never  mentioned  it,  how  could  it  have  signi- 
led  to  us  ?  None  but  you,  Manon,  would 
lave  ever  indulged  in  dreams  of  my  becom- 
ng  his  wife  !  He  dishonorable  !  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying — you.  speak  in 
your  ignorance ! " 

She  turned  proudly  away ;  but  her  heart 
:,hrobbed  painfully  while  she  was  speaking. 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  across  her  that 
there  might  be  some  truth  in  Manon's  words, 
although  she  had  always  disbelieved  Philip's 
self-accusations  ;  and  that  thought  was  agony 
;o  her.  She  would  rather  have  been  guilty 
lerself  than  have  doubted  him. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  returned  Manon,  meek- 
y,  "  this  is  the  last  evening  we  shall  ever  bo 
;ogether,  and  for  the  first  time  in  your  lifo 
fou  have  spoken  harshly  to  me." 

"You  spoke  against  him,  Manon. !  " 


112 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"  Why  should  you  care,  ma  mie? — he  is 
married." 

"  I  know  it;  you  need  not  remind  me  so 
often  that  I  am  nothing  to  him.  But  that 
does  not  prevent  me  from  remembering  Mr. 
EarnscliSe — with — with  respect  and  admira- 
tion." 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  you  are  very  young; 
forget  him." 

Marguerite  bent  her  head,  and  gazed  long 
upon  the  red  embers.  She  was  thinking  of 
tlif  evening  when  she  and  Philip  stood,  side 
"by  side,  in  the  fire-light,  and  she  had  listen- 
ed for  the  first  time  to  that  voice,  whose 
slightest  sound  was  afterwards  such  music  to 
her.  She  thought  of  all  that  had  happened 
since  then — the  new  light  that  had  opened 
upon  her  in  his  love,  and  her  own — her  fa- 
ther's death — Philip's  departure.  All  passed 
"before  her  vaguely  and  dream-like,  but  leav- 
ing, a  dull  shadow  behind  each  as  it  passed 
away,  while  she  seized  in  the  red  embers. 

44  Forget  him  !  "  she  repeated,  after  a  long 
silence,  and  startling  Manon  with  her  solemn 
tone.  "  Would  God  I  could  forget  him  !  " 

She  reseated  herself  in  her  old  place,  and 
began  speaking  of  other  things.  "  Manon, 
•while  you  are  here  do  not  neglect  my  flowers, 
and  when  strangers  come  to  Kersaint,  if 
there  is  any  young  girl  among  them,  ask  her 
to  take  care  of  my  white  rose-tree.  And 
Manon,  be  kind  to  Bruno  now,  he  will  have 
no  other  friend  left,  and  if  I  can,  I  will  try 
to  send  him  some  money,  poor  creature ! 
Tell  Bon  Aflfut  I  am  gone,  and  wish  him 
pood-bye  for  me;  and,  above,  all,  take  the 
Blaisots  the  presents  I  have  laid  aside  for 
them.  Say  to  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  had  only 
a  few  books  to  send  him,  but  I  hope  he  will 
in- vcr  forget  me,  nor  cease  to  pray  for  me. 
And  Manon,  dear  Manon,  do  not  grieve  too 
much  for  me  when  I  am  gone.  We  may 
meet  again  sooner  than  we  expect,  and  I 
will  write  to  you  as  often  as  I  have  anything 
to  say ;  and  if  I  am  ever  rich,"  she  tried  to 
smile,  "  you  shall  come  and  be  my  servant." 

Manon  strove  vainly  to  repress  her  tears, 
and  speak  cheerfully  of  the  future.  Ever 
and  anon  a  sob  choked  her  utterance,  as  the 
reality  of  the  approaching  separation  forced 
itself  upon  her;  and  at  ten  o'clock — glad  of 
any  excuse  for  action — she  made  M arguerile 
leave  the  study  and  go  to  rest,  reminding 
her  of  the  early  hour  at  which  she  muM  si  art 
next  morning.  Then  Manon  undressed  her, 
as  in  old  days  when  she  wa*  a  little  child, 
and  afterwards  sat  by  the  bedside,  talking  to 
her  of  her  mother,  and  of  long  past  times, 
until,  at  length.  Marguerite's  eyes  grew 
heavy,  ;md  -lie  slept. 

lint  M;inon  watched  all  that  night — count- 
ed every  breath  of  her  child  as  she  hung 
Over  her  in  her  sleep — saw,  at  length,  tin- 
cold  glimmering  of  the  day  that  was  to  di- 
vide them  ;  and  not  until  she.  had  kis-ed 
Margiierit"  fur  the  last  time  in  the  diligence, 
and  returned  again  to  the  solitary  inanoir, 


did  she  give  way  to  her  own  passionate  out- 
burst of  sorrow. 

***** 

"  Est  ce  que  cela  vous  gfrne,  monsieur?  " 

"  M'lis  du  tout,  mademoiselle  ! "  with  a  po- 
lite smile,  as  Bello  extended  his  length  in  the 
coupe  of  the  diligence,  and  crushed  up  the 
feet  of  the  Frenchman  who  was  Marguerite's 
travelling  companion. 

"  Du  tout!  Few  things  inconvenience 
me."  And  the  speaker,  a  ferociously  ugly  lit- 
tle man,  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat,  and 
began  to  sing.  "  You  like  music,  1  am  sure, 
you  must  like  it,  with  your  face  ?  Then 
your  voyage  will  be  a  pleasant  one,  for  sing- 
ing is  my  forte." 

His  voice  was  worse  than  his  face  ;  but  his 
utter,  his  appalling  cheerfulness,  so  to  speak, 
aroused  Marguerite  in  spite  of  herself.  Ev- 
ery small  hamlet,  every  wretched  clump  of 
houses  that  they  passed,  her  companion  let 
down  the  window. 

"  Co7iducteur,  how  do  they  call  this  place? 
Ah  !  "  evidently  not  hearing  the  reply,  "  very 
well.  How  near  are  we  to  St.  Malo?  " 

"  Half  a  league  nearer  than  when  mon- 
sieur inquired  last." 

"  Just  so — ah  ! "  (Back  in  his  place  again.) 
"  Pardon,  mademoiselle!  your  dog  does  not 
bite,  I  believe  ;  just  so.  *  Le  plaisir  d'  lire 
un  soldatS  I  never  was  in  the  army  though, 
mademoiselle.  It  is  right  to  tell  you  that; 
for  my  appearance  is  military,  and  might 
mislead.  No,  I  have  served  my  country  in 
another  way.  Conducteur,  liola !  -where 
does  one  breakfast  ?  " 

And  so  on  for  about  two  hours,  until  they 
stopped  before  the  one  hotel  of  a  small  dirty 
town. 

"Mademoiselle  does  not  descend?"  as 
Marguerite  declined  getting  out.  "  But  it 
is  unheard  of— impossible — on  this  raw  morn- 
ing to  travel  fasting.  I  implore — I  en- 
treat  "  But  Marguerite  was  firm  ;  and 

the  little  man,  "desolated"  at  her  refusal, 
ran  in  to  breakfast  alone.  However,  in  a 
few  minutes  he  returned  with  coffee  and  a 
roll — •*  Mademoiselle,  I  supplicate  you  to 
eat." 

His  ugly  face  was  so  earnest  that  Marguer- 
ite took  the  coffee  to  please  him,  and  was 
better  for  it.  The  poor  child  had  not  been 
able  to  touch  a  morsel  before  leaving  Ker- 
saint, and  was  actually  faint  from  fasting  and 
all  the  tears  she  had  shed. 

"  1  am  better  now,'1  she  said,  timidly,  when 
thev  were  once  more  on  the  road  ;  "  the  cof- 
fee has  refreshed  me." 

11  Mademoiselle  !  "  returned  the  French- 
man, solemnly,  "  you  are  very  young,  very 
young — sixteen  years,  perhaps  ;  lam  forty- 
t\vo;  an  immense  dilfci  encr  —  a  liletime.  in 
fact  ;  permit  that  I  give  you  u  counsel.  You 
are  doulitless  a  young  person  of  sensibility, 
so  \vas  I.  You'  have  had  sorrows  already 
probably,  not  greater  than  mine  were.  You 
love  music,  so  do  1.  There  is  then 


PHILIP  EAPvXSCLIFFE. 


113 


similarity  of  disposition — of  disposition  only  ; 
I  am  aware  of  external  differences,  and  also 
of  your  thoughts  at  this  moment.  You  prob- 
ably consider  me  the  most  hideous  person  you 
ever  saw." 

"  Mais,  monsieur!" 
"  Deny  it !  " 
"  Oh,  monsieur  !  " 

*'  Mademoiselle,  you  shrink  from  giving 
me  pain,  when,  in  fact,  your  admission  of 
my  ugliness  would  be  the  greatest  compli- 
ment you  could  pay  me.  I  hate  to  be  like 
other  people,  and,  as  I  am  not  handsome,  I 
am  proud  of  my  plainness.  It  is  a  distine- 
t.on,  mademoiselle,  to  be  the  ugliest  man  in 
a  society,  which  I  invariably  am — a  very 
great  distinction."  He  paused,  a  little  out 
of  breath,  then  resumed  with  sort  of  a  jerk, 
"Ah!  my  counsel  to  you;  pardon  me  for 
•wandering  from  my  subject ;  you  did  not 
know  I  had  one,  I  have  though.  My  coun- 
sel to  you  is  this.  In  all  your  trials,  your 
sorrows,  your  disappointments — for,  even 
with  your  youth  and  beauty,  you  may  have 
them — eat  and  drink.  When  I  was  young,  I 
had  a  dreadful  grief,  a  grief  that  went  to  my 
/heart's  core  (you  can  guess  its  nature,  per- 
haps,) and  at  first  I  really  thought  I  should 
never  get  over  it.  But  I  happened  at  that 
time  to  be  staying  in  Perigueux,  and  to  that 
circumstance  I  owe  my  very  life;  for  a  pate 
de  Perigueux  accidentally  taught  me  one  of 
the  greatest  secrets  of  man's  existence. 

' '  It  happened  on  the  third  day  after  my 
— bereavement,  I  may  call  it,  I  came  down 
from  my  room.  I  was  living  in  an  hotel,  the 
Chene  Vert,  at  the  time,  pale  and  haggard ; 
figure  to  yourself  that  I  had  eaten  nothing 
ffor  about  sixty  hours.  I  entered  the  salle  a 
manger  with  no  better  intention  than  to  have 
;one  cup  of  cafe  noir,  and  then  go  out  and 
-put  an  end  to  myself.  Well,  as  luck  would 
have  it,  neither  of  the  garcons  were  there, 
or  answered  to  my  call,  and  I  was  just  leav- 
ing the  room  again,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon 
the  most  lovely  little  breakfast  you  ever 
saw,  laid  out  for  one  person  on  a  side-table. 
I  think  I  see  it  now,  a  pate  de  Perigueux,  a 
,cold  capon,  and  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Mar- 
,gaux.  Now,  mademoiselle,  the  devil  may 
.have  put  it  into  my  head  ;  but  when  I  saw  it 
all,  although  I  knew  it  was  for  a  fat  old  col- 
onel of  dragoons,  who  came  there  regularly 
every  morning  to  breakfast,  I  resolved  to  eat 
.it  myself.  '  As  I  shall  be  a  corpse  by  noon- 
day,1 I  thought,  » the  old  fellow  cannot  call 
•me  out.1  And  with  that  I  sat  down  and  be- 
,gan. 

"  Ma  foi !  I  think  I  taste  that  pie  now. 
<Never,  before  or  since,  have  I  eaten  anything 
so  delicious.  I  finished  the  whole  of  it;  I 
ate  half  the  capon,  and  I  drank  the  wine. 
.Then  I  looked  through  the  window,  and  saw 
the  colonel  coming  along,  stroking  his  beard 
and  clanging  his  sword  as  he  walked.  «  Place 
aux  morts!1  I  thought ;  «  I  shall  so  soon  be 
dead,  that  it  is  only  "fair  a  living  ma,n  shoul  I 
8 


give  me  his  breakfast.'  So  T  jumped  up, 
took  my  hat,  and  got  out  just  as  my  colonel 
swaggered  in,  and  the  waiters  all  rushed  up 
to  show  him  into  the  salle. 

"  Well,  when  I  got  into  the  streets,  every- 
thing seemed  changed.  The  sun  was  shining 
on  the  old  cathedral,  the  people  in  the  mar- 
ket looked  happy  and  cheerful,  and  by  the 
time  I  had  got  to  the  bridge  that  was  to  wit- 
ness my  death,  I  never  felt  in  better  spirits  in 
my  life.  I  went  back  to  the  hotel,  where 
the  old  colonel  was  swearing  eternal  perdition 
to  the  scoundrel  who  had  eaten  his  breakfast, 
and  frankly  confessed  my  delinquency,  and 
that  it  had  saved  my  life.  And  from  that  day 
to  this  I  have  always  known  that  eating  and 
drinking  is  a  sovereign  remedy  against  bad 
spirits  or  misfortune. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  I  have  often  thought:, 
from  the  look  of  his  eye,  when  he  heard  my 
explanation,  that  greedy  old  beast  of  a  col- 
onel would  much  sooner  I  had  jumped  off 
the  highest  bridge  in  France,  than  have  eat- 
en his  breakfast.  Such  is  human  nature  !  "  . 

Marguerite  listened,  and  tried  to  smile  at 
her  companion's  stories,  but  she  felt  wearied 
and  spiritless.  To  be  alone,  and  travelling 
to  unknown  people,  and  a  new  home,  was 
enough  in  itself  to  depress  her,  even  had  it 
only  been  for  a  visit ;  but  when  continually 
the  thought  arose,  that  she  had  seen  Kersaiat 
for  the  last  time,  and  that  strange  faces  and 
new  scenes  were  henceforth  to  be  her  life, 
the  great  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  and  her  wan 
face  became  paler  and  paler.  Late  in  the 
day  the  diligence  stopped  at  St.  Brieux  for 
dinner. 

"  Mademoiselle  ne  descende  pas?"  again 
inquired  the  waiter,  in  astonishment,  as  Mar- 
guerite hesitated. 

44  Certainly,"  answered  the  little  man  at 
her  side,  fiercely.  "  We  both  descend." 

And  Marguerite  felt  grateful  for  his  pro- 
tection, as  they  entered  the  large  room,  at 
which  the  table  d'hote  dinner  had  already  (Com- 
menced, and  about  twenty  bearded  faces 
looked  up  in  visible  admiration  at  her  as  she- 
came  in. 

"Bring  some  hot  soup,"  said  her  smalt 
companion,  when  they  were  seated.  "  Soup 
is  what  you  want,  mademoiselle,'1  he  whis- 
pered. "  Wine  would  not  suit  you,  and  a 
choking  sensation  in  your  throat  prevents 
you  from  eating  solid  food.  However,  as 
you  pay  three  francs,  whether  you  eat  much 
or  little,  you  can  help  yourself  from  the 
dishes  as  they  come  round,  and  make  over 
what  you  don't  want  to  your  dog."  For  Bel- 
lo,  faithful  to  his  old  trust  of  protector,  kept 
close  to  Marguerite's  side,  and  made  angry 
demonstrations,  when  the  waiters  tried  to 
turn  him  out. 

"I  think  I  shall  have  to  pay  for  Bello," 
said  Marguerite.  "  In  the  diligence  they 
made  me  pay  a  coupe  place  for  him." 

"Poor  child!"  returned  the  little  man^ 
kindly.  **  When  you  are  eu  voyage  you 


114 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


must  not  pay  everything  they  demand.     "\Vas 
no  one  with  you  when  you  paid  for  the  dog  ?  " 

"  Only  Manon,  and  you  know  she  does 
not  understand  travelling." 

"Manon — oh,  yes!  I  see.  Garcon !  la 
.carte.  Chateau  Morgaux — La  Rose — St. 
Julien — that  will  do.  A  half-bottle— ah  !  " 
•  Marguerite  thought  the  long  dinner  would 
never  end,  and  was  astonished  at  her  little 
companion's  powers  of  reception.  Fish, 
flesh,  and  fowl,  solids  and  sweets — there  was 
room  for  all ;  and  when  the  conducteur  of 
the  diligence  came  in  to  announce  that  the 
horses  were  ready  to  start,  he  emptied  two 
or  three  dishes  of  walnuts  and  bonbons  into 
his  pockets,  to  amuse  himself  with  on  the 
way. 

The  shadows  soon  began  to  deepen,  and 
in  another  hour  it  was  night — night ! — for  the 
first  time,  and  with  strangers.  Marguerite 
looked  out  upon  the  barren  tracts  of  country 
through  which  they  were  passing,  and  over 
which  a  watery  moon  occasionally  broke  forth 
through  the  mist,  and  trembled  as  the  cold 
autumn  wind  swept  in  upon  her  cheeks. 
The  Frenchman,  tired  out  at  last,  slept  in 
his  corner.  Bello  lay  motionless  at  her  feet, 
and  only  the  cracking  of  the  condueteur's 
whip,  as  they  rattled  through  some  solitary 
village,  broke  the  monotonous  rumbling  of 
the  wheels. 

Sick  and  weary,  Marguerite  laid  her  head 
back  in  the  corner  of  the  diligence,  and  at 
length  an  uncertain  and  restless  slumber 
overcame  her.  She  was  roused  by  a  more 
vigorous  cracking  of  the  whip  than  usual, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  over  rough 
pavement ;  and  looking  out,  she  saw  that  they 
were  in  a  town,  rolling  along  narrow,  ill-lit 
streets,  and  rousing  up  the  peaceful  inhabi- 
tants from  their  midnight  slumbers.  They 
stopped  suddenly  before  the  Hotel  de  France, 
and  the  Frenchman  awoke  with  a  start. 

'•  Sacre  Moit !  Where  are  we?  Con- 
iucteur,  are  we  here  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  we  are  here." 

"  Dieu  sait  beni !  Mademoiselle,  we  are 
in  St.  Malo." 

He  jumped  out  with  his  little  sac  de  nuit, 
his  only  luggage  (it  is  wonderful  with  how 
few  changes  a  Frenchman  can  travel),  and 
then  assisted  Marguerite  to  descend.  "  How 
many  pieces  have  you?  "he  inquired.  '*  1 
will  see  after  your  baggage  for  you." 

11  Nous  ne  dechargeons  pas  le  soir,"  said 
the  conducteur,  sleepily. 

"  But  I  start  early  to-morrow  by  the  steam- 
er for  England,1'  Marguerite,  interposed. 

"All  in  time!"  returned  the  man,  who 
was  now  unharnessing  the  horses.  "  Kntre/, 
entrez,  mftdflmoueUe." 

"  I  hope  it  is  all  right,"  she  said,  turning 
to  her  friend.  "  Manon  told  me  never  to 
lose  sight  of  my  things." 

"  l>o  not  f«-ar.  I  will  take  care  of  them 
for  you.  At  what  o'clock  dors  the  steamiT 
•tart  to-morrow,  garcou  ?  "  to  the  half  awaken- 


ed porter,  who,  candle  in  hand,  was  impa- 
tiently waiting  for  them  to  enter.  "  Cinq 
heures  et  demie.  Bon  !  show  mademoiselle 
to  a  sleeping-room.  I  shall  remain  in  the 
salle,"  the  little  man  thought.  "  It  is  nearly 
one,  now ;  and  it  is  not  worth  paying  for  a 
bed  for  four  hours.  I  can  sleep  sweetly  OQ 
a  chair." 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

"  CINQ  heures,  mademoiselle.  Vous  nYvez 
qu'un  petit  quart  d'heure  pour  le  dejetiner." 

Marguerite  started,  and  saw  a  rosy,  good- 
tempered  peasant-girl  standing  by  her  side. 

"  Where  am  I,  Manon?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"You  must  not  delay,  mademoiselle  I1* 
called  out  a  discordant  voice  in  the  passage ; 
"  the  steamer  starts  precisely."  The  tone 
recalled  to  her  the  events  of  the  past  day, 
and  after  hastily  bathing  her  face,  and  smooth- 
ing back  her  long,  uncurled  hair,  she  followed 
the  bonne  down  stairs ;  and  found  her  little 
travelling  companion  awaiting  her  in  the 
great  vacant  salle,  where  some  coffee  stood 
ready  on  the  table. 

"  Monsieur,  I  hope  you  have  not  risen  so 
early  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"*Not  at  all,  mademoiselle  ;  in  fact,  I  have 
not  risen  at  all,  for  I  perferred  not  going 
to  bed.  Take  some  breakfast,  I  entreat:  if 
you  are  a  bad  sailor,  it  will  not  make  you 
worse  to  eat ;  if  you  are  a  good  one,  it  will 
save  you  buying  it  on  board,  where,  as  it  is 
an  English  boat,  the  coffee  will  be  execrable, 
and  the  price  enormous." 

Marguerite  seated  herself,  but  she  could 
eat  verv  little.  "  I  wonder  where  my  lug- 
gage is  ?  "  she  suggested,  timidly. 

"  Give  yourself  no  trouble  :  I  know,"  said 
the  Frenchman.  "  Have  yon  really  finished  ? 
Then,  mademoiselle,  we  had  better  start ;  the 
tide  is  low,  and  you  must  take  a  small  boat." 

Outside  the  hotel  stood  a  porter,  waiting 
for  them,  with  all  Marguerite's  luggage. 
The  day  was  now  just  beginning  to  dawn, 
but  the  narrow  streets  were  so  dark,  she 
would  never  have  made  her  way  without 
her  guide,  who  gave  her  his  arm,  and  assisted 
her  over  the  rough,  dirty  pavement.  At  the 
harbor,  a  crowd  of  noisy  boatmen  assailed 
them,  ami  attempted  each  to  seize  some  of 
the  luggage;  but  tlie  little  man  waved  his 
hand  imperiously,  and  made  his  way  to  a 
better-looking  boat  than  the  rest,  into  which 
he  helped  Marguerite,  Hello  elosely  follow- 
ing. 

The  steam  was  just  up  when  they  reached 
the  vessel,  and  the  Frenchman  had  only  timo 
to  run  up  the  companion-Udder,  and  seo 

Margin-rite  and  all  her  tilings  salcly  on  board 
before  tin-  bell  rang,  and  it  waa  time  for  him 
to  return. 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


115 


"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  thank  you  sufficient- 
ly." Marguerite  extended  her  hand.  The 
little  man  touched  it,  then  bowed  low. 

"  Here  is  rny  card,  mademoiselle,"  he  re- 
plied, producing  a  very  glossy  one  from  his 
waistcoat-pocket ;  **  and  in  the  vilain  pays  to 
which  you  are  going,  I  shall  be  too  honored 
if  my  name  is  not  forgotten  in  your  thoughts 
— the  last  Frenchman,  remember,  to  whom 
you  have  spoken  before  you  exile — — " 

"  Going  with  us,  mounseer?  "  said  a  sail- 
or, jogging  his  elbow. 

"  No,  I  dank  God,  sare.     I  not  vis  you." 

"  Well,  you  must  look  sharp,  then ;  we're 
just  off." 

The  Frenchman,  with  much  dignity,  de- 
jcended  the  ladder,  and  in  another  minute 
'lie  steamer  was  in  motion. 

Marguerite  glanced  at  the  card,  on  which 
was  written,  "  Achille  Jules  Cesar  le  Grand, 
Alarchand  Tailleur,"  and  then  at  the  small 
hero  himself,  who  was  sitting  in  the  boat 
watching  her.  She  waved  her  hand  kindly, 
*,nd  was  ashamed  to  feel  the  tears  come  into 
L**r  eyes.  "  This  little  tailor  is  perhaps  the 
b*st  person  who  will  show  kindness  to  me," 
slrfj  thought.  Just  then,  another  idea  flashed 
across  her — she  had  paid  nothing  in  the  hotel 
or  boat,  and  of  course  Monsieur  Achille 
would  be  responsible  for  all,  '*  and  he  was 
too  delicate  to  tell  me  of  it!"  she  said,  as 
the  steamer  swept  out  of  the  harbor,  and  he 
vanished  out  of  her  sight.  "  And  only  a 
tailor!" 

Her  further  reflections  upon  her  own  for- 
getfulness  were  here  interrupted  by  warlike 
sounds  from  Bello,  who  was  resenting  the 
attempts  of  two  sailor  lads  to  remove  him 
from  Marguerite's  side. 

"  Blow  the  great  ugly  brute  !  "  said  one  ; 
"  whoever  heard  tell  of  passengers  bringing 
such  as  you  aboard,  before  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  not  touch  him,"  inter- 
posed Marguerite,  in  her  soft,  foreign  ac- 
cent; "he  is  so  fierce  to  strangers!  If  he 
must  not  be  here,  1  will  go  where  you  like 
to  take  him,  and  he  will  follow." 

Both  lads  touched  their  caps.  "  We 
didn't  know  he  belonged  to  you,  miss; 
there's  a  regular  place  for  dogs  below,  but  it 
ain't  fit  for  you  to  come  there."  However, 
Marguerite  went  with  them,  and  saw  Bello 
safely  consigned  for  the  voyage,  and  then 
returned  to  her  place. 

It  was  a  fresh  autumn  morning,  with  a 
rising  wind  from  the  west ;  and  the  heavy 
cross  sea  soon  sent  the  other  passengers  be- 
low. But  to  her  the  roar  of  the  waters,  and 
the  cold  spray  dashing  across  her  face  was 
delightful,  and  she  remained  on  deck,  silent- 
ly watching  the  coast  of  France  until  it  van- 
ished in  the  hazy  distance.  At  about  ten 
o'clock  they  reached  Jersey,  where  they  had 
to  change  into  a  larger  steamer,  and  this  time 
she  was  forced  to  see  herself  after  the  lug- 
gage and  Bello  :  no  pleasant  task  for  one  so 
young  and  timid,  and  »/ith  the  consciousness, 


that  she  spoke  like  a  foreigner.  However) 
she  managed  pretty  well ;  and  though  no 
English  gentleman  came  forward  to  assist, 
the  common  sailors  were  all  civil,  and  touch- 
ed their  hats  when  they  spoke  to  her. 
Marguerite  was  dressed,  of  course,  in  the 
deepest  mourning,  and,  according  to  the 
provincial  French  fashion,  a  long  crape  veil 
nearly  reached  her  feet.  But  her  fresh 
young  face  was  one  that  black  became  ;  and 
a  certain  air  of  timidity,  perfectly  distinct 
from  shyness,  joined  to  her  graceful  and  dig- 
nified carriage,  told  even  the  commonest 
sailor-boy  that,  though  she  was  travelling 
alone,  she  was  of  gentle  birth. 

There  was  a  great  many  passengers  from 
Jersey,  and  some  ladies  seated  themselves 
beside  Marguerite.  One  of  them  was  young 
and  good-looking,  and  as  the  steamer  passed 
along  the  varied  coast  of  the  island,  Mar- 
guerite said  to  her  gently,  "  It  is  beautiful, 
this  little  island,  madame !  " 

The  lady  stared,  and  then  laughed,  and 
then,  with  the  slightest  possible  bow,  turned 
away  and  went  on  talking  to  her  compan- 
ions. 

"Heavens!  are  these  Englishwomen  ;  can 
they  be  compatriots  of  Philip's  ?  "  thought 
Marguerite.  However,  this  little  incident 
served  as  a  warning  to  her  to  speak  to  no 
more  strangers ;  and  she  sat  alone  and  silent 
the  whole  remainder  of  the  day,  eating  only 
a  few  biscuits,  and  declining  to  go  below  to 
the  cabin  dinner. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  reached 
Southampton,  and,  as  she  had  forgotten  to 
mention  the  exact  day  when  the  steamer 
sailed,  no  one  was  there  to  meet  her,  and 
she  had  alone  to  disembark  and  go  to  an  ho- 
tel, where  the  enormous  bill  the  next 
morning  made  Marguerite  blush  with  shamri 
as  she  thought  of  Monsieur  Achille,  and 
wondered  if  he  had  paid  so  much  for  her  at 
St.  Malo. 

"  Four  shillings  for  my  supper  !  I  thought 
I  had  nothing,"  she  ventured  to  suggest  to 
the  magnificent  head-waiter. 

"  For  D's  supper,  miss.  Allow  me  to  rer 
fer.  Ah  !  your  large  dog ;  two  more  for  his 
breakfast." 

She  paid  without  a  word,  but  hoped,  ment 
tally,  meat  would  not  be  so  dear  in  London 
as  at  Southampton,  or  her  cousin  would  have 
to  pay  a  good  deal  for  Bello's  keep. 

"  Do  you  have  a  commissioner  to  clear 
your  things,  miss?  He  will  bring  thorn  to 
the  station,  and  save  you  all  trouble." 

"  Oh,  if  you  please." 

"  And  a  carriage  for  yourself?  " 

"  Certainly."  And  with  all  these  small 
expenses,  together  with  similar  ones  in  Lon- 
don,  Marguerite  reached  her  cousin's  house 
with  just  sufficient  money  left  in  her  purse  to 
pay  the  cab,  and  very  nearly  dead  with  the 
fatigue  and  excitement  she  had  gone  through. 

Danby  met  her  himself  at  the  door. 

"My  poor  cln'ld,  you  are  heartily   wel* 


116 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE 


frigi 


come."  The  kind  tone  of  voice  was  a  pleas- 
ant surprise  to  Marguerite,  who  had  pictured 
him  to  herself  as  very  different  ;  and  a 
brighter  expression  came  in  her  face,  as  she 
followed  him  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room. 
**  If  you  had  told  me  what  day  you  were 
coming,  my  dear,  I  should  have  met  you  at 
Southampton." 

"Oh!  thank  you,  sir.  I  should  indeed 
have  been  glad  to  see  you  on  my  arrival  ;  I 
felt  so  lonely  travelling  by  myself." 

Danby  opened  the  drawing-room  door; 
and,  entering,  Marguerite  saw  her  future 
companions,  Mrs.  Danby  and  Georgy,  both 
seated  together  on  the  sofa,  and  looking 
id  and  stately. 

The  room  was  not  a  large  one  ;  the  win- 
dows were  hung  with  rose-lined  muslin  cur- 
tains and  gilded  scrolls,  and  a  rose-colored 
«ilk  portiere  replaced  the  old-fashioned  fold- 
ing-doors, communicating  with  the  small 
back  drawing-room  (which,  when  the  stained- 
glass  window  was  open,  overlooked  the  Tav- 
istock  Mews)  ;  endless  trinkets,  and  gew- 
gaws, and  gaily  bound  books  adorned  the 
table;  Chinese  monsters  of  doubtful  antiqui- 
ty, stood  on  braequets  in  the  corners:  a 
score  of  family  miniatures  (most  of  them 
picked  up  in  Hanway  Street)  hung  on  each 
side  of  the  mantlepiece  ;  water-color  draw- 
ings of  Miss  Georgy's  graced  the  walls. 
But,  in  a  moment,  Marguerite  detected  the 
flimsy,  bad  taste  of  the  room,  and  saw  that 
neither  fresh  flowers,  nor  well  read  books, 
nor  signs  of  occupation,  gave  it  the  look  of 
home.  She  glanced  at  the  De  Burghs,  and 
knew  they  were  neither  of  them  prepared  to 
like  her. 

"  Mere  is  little  Marguerite,"  said  Danby, 
rather  nervously.  "  Mrs.  Danby,  my  dear! 
your  new  cousin.1' 

Mrs.  Danby  extended  three  languid  fin- 
gers to  her  "  new  cousin,"  and  the  expres- 
sion of  Georgy's  face  betokened  anything 
but  a  hearty  welcome.  She  had  troubled 
herself  very  slightly  about  Marguerite,  as 
soon  as  she  found  that  EarnsclilFe  would  not 
accompany  her,  and  only  expected  to  see  an 
awkward  country  girl  of  sixteen,  who  would 
not  be  much  in  her  own  way,  and  probably 
some  day  go  out  as  a  governess  ;  and  when 
Marguerite  entered  in  all  her  Hush  of  strik- 
ing beauty,  and  with  us  much  grace  of  man- 
ner as  though  .she  had  been  accustomed  to 
good  society  from  h«-r  cradle,  the  surprise 
was  by  no  means  agreeable.  She  did  not 
want  a  lovely  girl,  ten  years  younger  than 
herself,  to  attract  away  the  attention  of  the 
few  men  they  managed  to  get  at  the  lmu>e, 
knd  at  once  foresaw  a  desperate  rival  in 
Margin-rite. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  St.  .John  ?  You 
must  excuse  my  surprise  ;  but  from  vmir 
h-tler.-,  we  expected  quite  a  little  girl." 

"Ah!"  returned  Marguerite,  in  her  rich 
voi'-i-  and  foreign  accent,  "  I  expre^  mv 
Knglish,  so  ill  ;  no  doubt  you  thought  my 


letter  childish;  but  I  am,  indeed,  sixteen 
— sixteen  and  a  few  days.11 

"  You  look  very  much  older." 

"Yes?  Oh!  I  do  not  look  at  all  old 
without  my  bonnet." 

"  You  have,  your  father's  eyes,  child,'* 
said  Danby,  very  kindly. 

The  little  speech  went  to  Marguerite's 
heart,  and  she  turned  and  kissed  the  old 
man's  cheek:  "Oh,  cousin!  he  so  often 
spoke  of  you."  she  whispered,  while  the 
ready  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Danby  tossed  her  head,  and  Georgy 
said  something  about  scenes.  Marguerite 
looked  very  calmly  from  one  to  the  other. 
She  knew  intuitively  they  did  not  like  her, 
and  drew  nearer  to  Danby,  as  to  her  only 
friend. 

"  You  must  be  very  tired,  dear,"  he  wen't 
on,  "  after  your  long  journey.  Dinner  will 
be  ready  in  about  an  hour.  Georgy,  take 
your  cousin  to  her  room." 

Very  slowly  Miss  Georgy  rose ;  and  she 
was  leisurely  approaching  Marguerite  when 
the  door  burst  open,  and  in  Hew  Bello,  near- 
ly upsetting  two  great  china  jars  as  he  en- 
tered, and  leaving  marks  of  his  muddy  feet 
upon  the  carpet.  Dauby  was  very  timid 
with  dogs — it  amounted  almost  to  a  peculi- 
arity with  him — and  he  exclaimed  as  loud 
as  the  two  women  at  the  intruder. 

"  Poor  Bello  !  "  said  Marguerite,  quietly ; 
"it  is  all  so  strange  to  him  ;  but  he  will 
soon  get  used  to  vou." 

"  Miss  St.  John,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Danby, 
actually  rising  from  the  sofa  with  outraged 
dignity.  "  You  do  not  mean  that  that  mon- 
ster is  yours  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  he  is,  madame." 

"  And  you  have  brought  him  with  you  to 
this  house?" 

"  I  have." 

"  My  dear,"  interrupted  Danby,  "  there 
must  be  some  mistake  !  You  cannot  mean 
that  you  wish  that  very  large  hound  to  be- 
come my  guest. 

"  Cousin,  he  was  my  father's  favorite — 
his  constant  companion." 

"  Oh  !  was  he  ?  Ah,  poor  Percy  !  Well, 
we  will  see/1 

Danby  fidgeted  about,  and  winced  as  Bel- 
lo glared  savagely  at  him  and  showed  his 
teeth. 

"  But,  to  tell  the  truth,"  he  went  on, 
more  resolutely,  "  1  am  not  loud  of  dogs/' 

"  Not  fond  of  dogs  ?  Oh!  sir,  you  must 
like  Piello.  When  once  he  knows  you  well, 
he  will  be  so  faithful  !  It.  is  his  very  sagaci- 
ty that  prevents  Ins  taking  to  strangers." 

"Yes,  exactly;   but  in  the  meantime — •" 

"  In  the  meantime,11  interruplcd  Mrs. 
Danby,  "you  will  recollect.  Miss  Si .  Jolin, 
I  d«»ii;t  allow  such  creatures  in  my  drawing- 
room.  What  your  cousin  may  permit  in  his 
sitting-room,  I  know  not  !  11 

"  fVrliaps  \Vilkiiw  likes  dogs,"  hesitated 
poor  Dauby. 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE 


117 


"Perhaps  something  temporary  might 
be  arranged  in  the  coal-hole,"  cried  Miss 
Georgy,  wittily. 

Marguerite  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  speakers,  her  dark  eyes  dilating,  and 
her  lips  parted.  She  really  scarcely  under- 
stood them  at  first.  That 'any  one  profess- 
ing regard  for  her  father  should  hesitate  at 
the  slight  inconvenience  of  receiving  his  dog, 
was  something  she  could  not  believe ;  but  at 
Miss  Georgy 's  remark,  and  the  sneer  accom- 
panying it,  her  cheek  flushed  crimson. 

"'Am  I  to  have  a  room  to  myself?  "  she 
said,  turning  to  Danby. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear,  and " 

"  Then,  please  may  Bella  come  with  me? 
He  shall  trouble  no  one  else." 

44  That  brute  in  one  of  the  bed-rooms  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Danby. 

"  Oh,  madame  !  would  you  turn  him  into 
the  streets?  He  is  old,  and  will  not  live 
very  long,  and  he  is  all  remaining  to  me  of 
my  home." 

"Mrs.  Danby  turned  away  coldly  from  the 
supplicating  young  face,  and  addressed  her 
husband. 

"  Just  settle  all  this  as  you  like,  Mr.  Dan- 
by; but  spare  me  any  more  scenes  with  this 
young  person  for  the  future.  I  am  not  in  a 
state  to  bear  these  shocks  on  my  nerves ; 
and  as  it  is,  I  shall  be  ill  and  unstrung  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  And,  Mr.  Danby,  sir  " 
(her  voice  became  prophetically  shrill) , 
"  turn  out  that  creature,  that  monster,  and 
take  away — the  young  person — I  am  faint- 
ing ; "  and  this  excellent  woman  sank  back 
hysterically  on  the  sofa. 

So  Danby  himself  showed  Marguerite  to 
her  room,  a  very  small  one,  overlooking  ex- 
tensive ranges  of  chimney-pots,  with  a  dis- 
tant glimpse  of  the  Foundling  Hospital,  and 
a  mews  in  the  foreground.  And  here,  with 
Bello  crouching  by  her  side,  she  wept  like  a 
child,  as  she  was,  at  her  first  coming  to  her 
new  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"  AND  why  did  not  Mr.  Earnscliffe  bring 
you  !  "  was  Georgy's  first  distinctly-addressed 
question  to  Marguerite  in  the  course  of  the 
evening.  "  I  thought,  he  was  such  a  great 
friend,  he  would  not  have  let  you  travel 
alone !  " 

The  sudden  mention  of  his  name  made 
Marguerite  color  up,  and  start,  in  a  manner, 
that,  caused  Georgy  to  fix  her  eyes  searching- 
ly  upon  her  face,  and  draw  all  sorts  of  con- 
clusions in  a  moment. 

"  Mr.  Earnscliffe  had  left,  he  was  only 
paying  us  a  visit." 

"  Returned  to  England?  Shall  you  know 
him  in  London,  then  ?  " 


"Oh,  no!"  replied  Marguerite,  very 
quickly.  "I  shall  not  see  him  any  more; 
he  is  going  to  Italy,  to  remain  abroad  some 
years." 

"  Ah  !  I  never  thought  it  would  be  much 
of  an  acquaintance  ! "  said  Mrs.  Danby  scorn- 
fully from  her  throne  on  the  sofa. 

But  Georgy,  with  sharper  eyes,  saw  that 
it  had  been  an  intimate  acquaintance,  and 
that  Marguerite  winced  at  the  name.  "  Tell 
us  what  Earnscliffe  is  like  ?  "  she  went  on, 
happy  in  her  power  of  making  the  poor 
child's  face  blush  and  her  eyes  fill.  "  I  have 
seen  him,  but  not  near.  Is  he  very  good- 
looking?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marguerite,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  gazing  straight  into  the  fire,  round 
which  they  were  sitting;  "he  is  considered 
very  handsome." 

"  Considered? — but  what  do  you  think?  " 

"  I — I — hardly  know,  madame." 

"/Madame!1"  said  Georgy,  laughing 
rudely.  "  It  is  not  the  fashion  in  England 
to  call  young  ladies  '  madame.'  How  long 
did  he  stay  with  you?  "  she  went  on,  relent- 
lessly. 

"Three  months  altogether." 

"A  visit  of  three  months — goodness! 
What  was  there  to  amuse  him  ? — had  you  any 
neighbors,  or  parties  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Marguerite,  hoping  to 
escape  from  speaking  of  Philip ;  "we  knew 
no  one  but  the  cure  and  the  doctor,  and  I 
never  went  to  a  party  in  my  life." 

"  No  one  would  say  it  from  her  manner," 
Danby  ventured  to  remark. 

"  No  ;  there  are  some  people  without  any 
natural  timidity,"  replied  his  wife;  "and 
Miss  St.  John  appears  to  be  of  them." 

"But  how  did  you  amuse  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe?" went  on  Georgy,  untiring  in  her 
sport. 

"  He  never  wanted  to  be  amused ;  he  was 
perfectly  happy,  conversing  with  my  father, 
or  wandering  through  our  wild  woods  with 
me,"  replied  Marguerite,  turning  her  large, 
dark  eyes  full  upon  Miss  de  Burgh.  "  Our 
life  was  delightful  to  him  after  having  had  so 
much  of  society  in  London." 

Utterly  unused  to  what  English  young  la- 
dies term  "  quizzing,"  Marguerite  had  de- 
tected the  bent  of  Georgy's  inquiries ;  and 
her  spirit  rose  at  the  idea  of  being  cross- 
examined. 

"  Oh,  how  pastoral ! "  returned  Miss 
Georgy,  with  a  sneer.  "From  all  I  have 
heard  of  Earnscliffv,  he  must  be  just  the 
kind  of  man  for  these  innocent  pleasures  and 
companionships !  " 

"And  who  has  educated  you,  dear?" 
said  Danby,  upon  whom  this  little  by-play 
was  lost;  "  for  educated  I  am  sure  you  are/' 

"  My  father  taught  me  in  English  for  two 
hours  every  day,"  replied  Marguerite, 
"while  he  was  strong  enough  to  do  any- 
thing ;  and  monsieur  le  cure  has  taught  me 
in  French  from  my  infancy." 


113 


PHILIP  EARNSCLTFFE. 


**  Monsieur  le  cure!"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Danby.  "  I  trust,  sir,"  addressing  her  hus- 
band, "  that  you  have  not  introduced  a  papist 
into  this  house  ?  " 

"  "You  are  not  a  papist,  my  dear?"  said 
Danby,  nervously — "  surely  you  cannot  be 
one  ! " 

"Papist,  sir?" 
"  Yes  ;  a  Roman  Catholic." 
"  Oh,  no!     Much  as  I  admire  their  form 
of  worship,  I  have  been  brought  up  to  mv 
father's  faith." 

"Admire  their  form  of  worship!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Danby,  with  pious  horror. 
"  Idolatrous  wretches  !  " 

"Ma,  I  wish  you  would  drop  those  ex- 
pressions," interrupted  Georgy  ;  "  they  are 
so  wounding  to  the  feelings  of  persons  of 
Catholic  spirit." 

"Oh,  Lord!  if  they  have,  begun  that™ 
ejaculated  Danby,  his  head  sinking  hopeless- 
ly between  his  hands.  "  Marguerite,  do  you 
know  the  difference  between  Anglicans  and 
Evangelicals?  because  you  soon  will,  if  you 
are  uninformed  on  the  subject." 

It  was  a  singular  thing  that  Mrs.  Danby 
and  her  daughter,  being  both  so  perfectly 
•worldly,  as  people  in  general  would  judge, 
and  having  lexl  a  life  abroad  the  reverse  of 
devout,  should  now  consider  it  incumbent 
upon  them  both  to  entertain  very  strong  doc- 
trinal opinions,  for  which  they  were  ready, 
at  all  times  and  all  places,  to  do  battle. 
Each  had  her  own  church,  her  pet  parson. 
Mrs.  Danby  attended  a  crowded  West-end 
chapel,  where  an  eloquent  young  extempore 
preacher,  of  sleek  face  and  white-handed 
appearance  set  forth  to  a  fashionable  congre- 
gation the  hottest  amount  of  low-church  doc- 
trine that  could  be  diluted  into  a  discourse 
of  an  hour  and  a  quarter;  and,  with  great 
self-complacency  on  the  subject  of  his  own 
election,  pronounced  judgment  each  Sunday 
on  the  heathenish  idolatry  and  perfect  cer- 
tainty of  perdition  of  the  larger  majority  of 
Christendom.  And  Miss  Georgy  frequented 
a  certain  mysterious  church,  where  the  dim 
light  scarcely  enabled  young  ladies  to  read 
the  illuminated  letters  on  their  gilt  prayer- 
books,  and  where  intoning,  and  candles,  and 
flowers,  and  chorister-boys,  gave  much 
M-andal  to  a  Protestant  churchwarden  and 
the  mass  of  the  parishoners.  As  may  be 
imagined,  the  ladies'  opinions  clashed  not  a 
little;  and  as  both  were  very  firm,  and  both 
invited  their  spiritual  directors  very  frequent- 
ly, a  good  many  passages  of  arms  were  the 
result. 

"I    never   heard    of   either   Anglican   or 
Evangelical,"  said   Marguerite,  in  answer  to 
Danln  's  question.     "  My  father  was  <  'hurch 
land.11 

*'  Oli.  that  is  quite  old-fashioned  now,  my 
dear.  However  I  am  old-fashioned  myself, 
and  I  will  take  you  to  WeslminMer  Abbey, 
for  you  to  hear  the  English  service,  next 


Sunday.     Of  course  you  have  never  heard 
our  Liturgy  ?  " 

"  Only  read  by  my  father;  but  it  scarcely 
could  sound  more  beautiful  than  that.  We 
used  to  have  our  service  together  every  Sun- 
day evening." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  were 
brought  up  with  English  ideas,  and  have  not 
got  into  the  foreign  ways  of  breaking  Sun- 
day," Danby  observed. 

"Oh,  Sunday  was  always  such  a  happy 
day  in  my  childhood,"  said  Marguerite,  her 
face  gladdening  as  she  spoke.  "  In  winter, 
Manbn  and  I  used  to  dance  in  the  great  salle  ; 
in  summer,  when  father  was  well  enough,  we 
made  excursions  into  the  woods,  Manon  and 
all,  and  dined  under  the  trees ;  then,  after- 
wards, I  would  sit  making  wreaths  of  the 
wild  flowers  we  had  gathered  on  the  way, 

while  I  sang  songs  and " 

"  Danced  ! — sung  songs  ! — made  wreaths, 
my  dear  !  Are  you  speaking  of  Sunday  ?  " 
"Yes,  sir;  it  was  our  fete-day — God's 
day,  father  told  me — the  day  of  happiness." 
"Hum!"  answered  Mr.  Danby,  shaking 
his  head  doubtfully,  while  the  two  extremes 
of  church  opinion  exchanged  looks,  and  met 
for  once  in  this  condemnation  of  such  a  fla- 
grant case  of  immorality,  Mrs.  Danby  de- 
precating with  her  hand  as  though  to  say 
that  the  state  of  this  young  woman  was,  in- 
deed, past  recall. 

"  When  you  are  at  Rome,  act  like  the  Ro- 
mans." 

At  Wiesbaden  and  Mainz  the  De  Burghs 
had  flaunted,  many  a  score  of  times,  in  gay 
silks  and  bonnets,  to  listen  to  military  bands 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon ;  but  they  were  now 
in  England,  which  made  a  very  great  dif- 
ference, and  they  both  regarded  Marguerite 
with  the  fierce  eyes  of  outraged  excellence. 

"  But,"  pursued  Danbv,  wishing  to  smoth- 
er over  everything,  "  1  am  sure  you  will  con- 
form to  English  opinion  now,  and  not  dance 
or  sing  on  Sundays.  It  might  be  very  well 

in  those  wild  places,  but " 

"  Ah,  sic," interrupted  Marguerite,  mourn- 
fully, "you  need  not  tell  me:  I  shall  never 
Irish  to  do  either  here.  Those  were  in  the 
happy  times  before  my  father  was  so  ill." 

"  And  can  yon  speak  French  pretty  well  ?  " 
Georgy  inquired. 

"Oh,"  replied  Marguerite,  in  French,  "it 
is  much  more  familiar  to  me  than  Knglish. 
1  greatly  prefer  speaking  it.;"  and  she  con- 
tinued talking  with  that  perfectly  French  in- 
tonation and  accent  to  which  no  foreigner 
can  ever  attain. 

"  It  is  no  gift,"  (leorgy  interrupted.  "Of 
course,  when  you  are  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  country,  it  would  be  very  strange  if 
\oii  could  not  >peak  the  language  !  Can  you 
sing  or  play  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  l.-arnt  the  pi.mo  yet,  but,  I 
can  play  accompaniments  to  my  songs  on  tho 
guitar,  and  1  have  a  very  good  voice." 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


119 


"  And  no  bad  opinion  of  yourself,"  Geor- 
gy  added,  half  aloud. 

"  It  is  fortunate  Miss  St.  John  has  such 
confidence  in  her  own  power,"  Mrs.  Danby 
remarked;  "her  accomplishments  she  will 
probably  find  needful  in  her  future  walk  of 
life.  A  French  accent,  above  all  is  desirable 
for  a  governess.  Oh  !  how  wearied  I  am  ! 

And  rising  with  languid  dignity,  the  mis- 
tress of  the  establishment  rang  the  bell,  and 
then  commanded  a  hungry-looking  young 
housemaid,  with  much  asperity,  "  to  summon 
the  servants  " — i.  e.,  Wilkins  and  an  unhap- 
py attempt  at  a  page — "  to  evening  read- 
ings." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  winter  and  spring  passed  by,  and 
Marguerite  became  at  least  accustomed  to 
her  life.  Mrs.  Danby  and  her  daughter 
both  disliked  her  in  their  own  way,  and 
strove  to  make  her  home  as  miserable  as 
possible,  in  the  hope  of  forcing  her  to  go  out 
as  a  governess ;  but  Dauby  loved  his  little 
cousin,  and  in  the  absence  of  his  step-daugh- 
ter at  her  gaieties,  or  of  his  wife  during  her 
fancied  illnesses,  Marguerite  was  his  only 
companion. 

She  liked  him,  and  was  grateful ;  but,  as 
she  lold  Earnscliif'e,  hers  was  not  a  nature 
readily  to  take  to  strangers ;  and  even  had 
any  of  her  new  associates  been  more  refined 
or  congenial  than  they  were,  she  would  have 
been  long  in  becoming  attached  to  them. 

As  it  was,  Georgy,  whose  nearer  approach 
to  her  own  age  naturally  attracted  Marguer- 
ite the  most,  continually  jarred  upon  her. 
But  Mrs.  Danby  repulsed  her  even  more. 
The  inanition,  the  selfishness  of  this  woman's 
life  was  something  so  new  to  Marguerite, 
after  the  gentle,  uncomplaining  sufferings  of 
her  own  father,  that  she  could  scarcely  even 
assume  a  tone  of  sincerity  in  inquiring  after 
her  -fancied  complaints,  and  in  time  rarely 
entered  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Dan- 
by passed  her  time  between  her  tawdry 
morning  callers,  and  homoeopathic  doctors. 
When  the  weather  was  fine,  Danby  took  her 
long  walks  about  London,  to  show  her  the 
sights,  with  most  of  which  she  was  very  dis- 
appointed. The  Exchange,  and  the  Tower, 
and  the  Bank,  seen  ankle-deep  in  mud,  and 
through  chocolate  fogs,  were  so  unlike  the 
London  that  Philip  had  described,  and  she 
imagined  !  And  Danby  was  often  quite  sur- 
prised at  her  very  mild  enthusiasm. 

"  Is  this  the  best  part  of  London  that  we 
have  seen,  Cousin?  is  there  nothing  more?  " 
asked  Marguerite,  one  February  afternoon, 
when  Danby  had  shown  her  Regent  Street, 
and  Piccadilly,  and  Trafalgar  Square,  and 
they  were  walking  koine  in  the  dusk. 


"Nothing  more?"  Why,  child,  what 
would  you  have  ?  I  thought,  after  passing  all 
your  life  in  a  ruined  old  French  house  in 
Brittany,  anything  would  appear  grand." 

"Ah!  that  was  home.  But  then  I  im- 
agined  London  so  different  to  what  it  is.  Mv 
own  childish  fancy  misled  me  I  suppose." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  happy  in  your- 
self, dear,  and  therefore  nothing  appears 
bright." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  happy  with  you,  Cousin.  Our 
evenings  are  very  pleasant  together  in  your 
own  room,  when  the  others  are  out,  and 
poor  Bello  may  lie  before  the  fire.  It  was 
very  kind  of  you  to  let  me  keep  him,  and  to 
tell  me  nothing  of  your  own  antipathy  to 
dogs.  I  should  be  very  miserable  without 
Bello!" 

"  Urn — the  dog  is  old." 

"Yes;  I  sometimes  think  he  will  not  live 
very  long ;  the  air  is  so  different  for  him 
here ;  and  then  living  down  in  the  area,  you 
see,  instead  of  wandering  where  he  likes — " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  know  that  I  have 
tried  to  have  him  more  up-stairs ;  but " 

"  Yes,  Cousin,  you  have  been  very  kind 
in  that,  as  in  everything  else.  You  always 
try  to  take  my  part ;  and,  as  the  others  do 
not  like  me,  I  am  sure  that  my  presence  does 
not  make  you  any  happier  in  your  own  house. 
It  would  be  fir  better  for  rne  to  go  out  as  a 
governess,  Miss  Georgy  says,  and  perhaps 
she  is  right;  but,  then,  I  do  not  like  to  leave 
Bello.  Do  you  think  I  might  take  him  with 
me  if  I  was  a  governess,  cousin  ?  " 

The  childish  gravity  with  which  she  asked 
the  question  made  Danby  smile  ;  but  it  quick- 
ly faded  from  his  face,  and  he  replied—"  Mar- 
guerite, you  would  not  speak  of  becoming 
a  governess  if  you  knew  how  deeply  it 
wounds  my  feelings  to  hear  you.  As  I  have 
told  you,  it  was  through  me  that  your  father 
became  poor;  and  while  I  have  a  home  you 
shall  never  leave  it.  Besides  this,  you  are 
in  no  dependent  position.  When  Kersaint 
is  sold,  and  the  money  it  realises  invested, 
you  will  have  a  nice  little  income  of  your 
own — enough,  on  my  death,  with  what  I 
shall  leave  you,  to  'live  very  comfortably. 
If  you  never  marry,  little  Maggy !  you  are 
not  quite  an  old  maid  yet,  you  know." 

"  I  shall  soon  be  seventeen,  sir.  How 
time  goes  on  ;  It  seems  only  yesterday  that 
I  was  a  child." 

"  And,  pray,  what  do  you  consider  your- 
self now  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Georgy  says  that  I  look  two- 
and-twenty,  and  have  such  an  old  manner !  " 

"  Does  she?  It  struck  me  Georgy  looked 
very  glum  the  other  evening  at  their  grand 
reunion,  as  they  call  it,  when  you,  in  your 
black  frock  and  the  flower  I  gave  you, 
attracted  so  much  attention  from  all  her 
friends." 

"  I  wished  afterwards  I  had  not  appear- 
ed," replied  Marguerite.  "  I  never  will 
again,  but  Mrs.  Danby  told  me  to  do  so,  and 


120 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


said  my  singing  would  make  the  party  '  go- 
off/ " 

»  "  Georgy's  quondam  admirer,  that  long- 
t'oated  young  parson,  seemed  to  have  a  good 
deal  to'say  to  you,  Maggy." 

"Mr.  Ignatius  Shirley?  Oh,  cousin,  he 
told  me  I  was  a  true  Anglican  !  I  had  no 
idea  of  it  before.  And  then,  when  1  was 
describing  our  cathedral  at  home,  he  stared 
BO  in  my  face,  and  repeated  some  half-sacred 
lines,  that  yet  seemed  to  apply  to  me.  I 
could  not  understand  him." 

"Nor  could  Georgy  either,  I  take  it.  She 
told  me  the  next  morning  you  were  a  thorough 
flirt,  Maggy ! " 

•  Marguerite  colored.  "  Georgy  does  not 
like  me,"  she  said,  "  and  calls  me  by  that 
odious  name,  because  I  dislike  it  so  much. 
We  shall  have  a  nice  evening  alone  to-day, 
however.  They  are  both  going  to  the  thea- 
tre." 

"Not  quite  alone,  dear.  I  asked  Mr. 
Mortimer  this  morning." 
'  "Oh!  .  r.  Mortimer  does  not  disturb  us. 
You  and  he  fan  talk  and  play  chess  after 
dinner,  while  I  sing  my  old  songs  to  myself. 
He  never  minds  my  singing,  he  is  so  good- 
natured.  I  really  like  Mr.  Mortimer.'1 

They  reached  home,  and  found  the  ladies 
ready  dressed  in  the  drawing-room  ;  for  they 
had  'dined  early,  as  they  usually  did  when 
they  went  to  the  theatre.  Marguerite's  face 
all  glowing  with  health  and  freshness,  as  she 
entered ;  and,  in  spite  of  her  dingy  mourn- 
ing, its  exceeding  beauty  made  Miss  Georgy 
feel  spiteful. 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  the  London  streets 
after  dark,  Marguerite!  I  wonder  at  your 
taste  for  a  young  lady  so  pastorally  brought 
up." 

"  We  have  seen  so  much  to-day.  I  never 
thought  of  being  out  late — otherwise  I  dis- 
h'ke  walking  on  these  dark,  foggy  after- 
noons."1 

"Oh,  of  course !  Mamma,  why  has  she 
kft  off  her  vail  and  turned  her  hair  back 
from  her  face  !  A  young  woman  of  her  age 
should  not  be  dressed  so  childishly —  it  looks 
quite  ridiculous." 

••  It  is  very  immaterial  how  Miss  St.  John 
dresses,11  drawled  Mrs.  Danby. 
'  "I  doirt  agree  with  you !  People  see 
Margin-rite  going  in  and  out  of  our  house, 
and  naturally  look  upon  her  as  belonging  to 
tw." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  your  young 
parson  admired  her  so  much,"  said  Danby, 
"  for  he  used  to  be  very  fond  of  you,  Geor- 
gy-11 

"  Admin'   her,  indeed  !  "  echoed  Mi 
Hurgh.      "  I    do    not    call    Hint    admiration. 
Any  ^irl  with  u  sort  of  look  and  manner  can 
get  young  mm  to  talk  to  her." 

"I  think  it  highly  wrong,"  said  Mr-. 
Danby,  languidly.  "  to  put  such  ludirrnus 
idea.-  intoMi-.x  St.  .Jolm'x  head.  Her  future 
position  will  be  one  in  which  no  ropcctublc 


young  woman  ever  allows  herself  to  be  ad- 
dressed by  the  other  sex — unless,  indeed, 
some  male  dependent  of  the  family  should 
make  her  an  offer  of  marriage.  I  remember 
my  dear  delightful  friend,  Lady  Louisa 
Drysdale,  used  to  say  it  was  charming  when 
the  governess  and  butler  were  engaged. 
'  It  makes  them  cheerful,1  she  said,  '  and 
prevents  them  running  after  my  sons.1  " 

"Lady   Drysdale    be !  "   interrupted 

Danby,  aroused  out  of  his  usual  placidity. 
"  What  has  all  this  cursed  trash  of  butlers 
and  governesses  to  do  with  Marguerite?  If 
any  one  turns  out  of  my  house  it  won't  be 
her,  ma'am — you  may  be  very  sure.  Come 
here  to  me,  Maggy  darling  !  " 

But  Marguerite  had  become  suddenly 
pale,  though  she  never  spoke  a  word.  She 
walked  straight  to  the  door,  then  up  to  her 
own  room. 

"  Can  I  bear  it?  "  she  exclaimed,  passion- 
ately, when  she  was  alone.  "  Can  I  live 
with  these  people  any  longer !  Oh  !  I  will 
be  a  governess — anything  sooner  than  re- 
main with  them.  A  governess — classed  with 
servants  !  I  was  not  made  for  it.  Father,  if 
you  could  see  me  now !  " 

She  did  not  weep.  She  never  wept  after 
an  insult  from  these  women  ;  but  her  cheeks 
burnt,  and  her  heart  beat  painfully,  and  she 
paced  up  and  down  her  small  room  impa- 
tiently, until  she  heard  the  house  door  close 
after*  them.  Then  she  bathed  her  face, 
smoothed  back  the  dark  masses  of  hair  from 
her  temples,  and  came  down  slowly  and  weari- 
ly to  the  drawing-room.  A  figure  stood  alone 
in  the  uncertain  light  before  the  fire,  and 
thinking  it  was  Danby  Marguerite  approach- 
,ed  softly,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der. 

"  Cousin,  it  is  hard  to  bear  all  they  say  to 
me." 

"  All  who  say,  Miss  St.  John  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer,  forgive  me!  I  mis- 
took you  for  my  cousin." 

"  What  is  it  so  hard  to  bear?  " 

"  Nothing — nothing  that  I  can  tell  you, 
sir."  She  seated  herself  by  the  fire,  and 
strove  hard  not  to  cry,  while  Mortimer  stood 
silently  looking  down  at  her  averted  face. 
He  had  looked  very  hard  at  Marguerite  of 
late. 

41  You  are  left  a  good  deal  alone."  In-  went 
on. 

••  Yes,  I  like  that.  Mr.  Danby  and  I  are 
quite  happy  together." 

"  Do  you  never  wish  to  accompany  Miss 
de  Burgh  to  her  gaieties,  then?" 

"  Oh,  never  !  "  Margin-rite  glanced  at  her 
black  dress.  "I  would  not  go  to  any  gay 

place." 

•'  Not  now,  of  course.  Hut  afterwards,  I 
suppler,  \nii  will  go  out  with  them  P1 

••  Nevi'-r!  In  the  lir-t  pi  ice  "  M  arum-rite 
gri-w  bolder  at  his  kind  tone  — "  I  don't  think 
I  should  ever  like  the  same  places  or  people 
us  Georgy  does  j  in  the  next,  1  am  goin^  to 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


121 


be  a  governess.  Although  my  cousin  does 
not  much  like  it,  I  have  quite  made  up  my 
mind " 

"You — are — going — to  be — a  governess, 
Miss  St.  John  ?  "  exclaimed  Mortimer,  lay- 
ing an  emphasis  on  each  word  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Yes — they  often  tell  me  it  would  be  best, 
and  I  feel  it  so  now.  I  hope  that  the  chil- 
dren will  not  dislike  me,  and  that  I  may  take 
Bello,"  she  added  in  a  tearful  whisper. 

Mr.  Mortimer  gave  a  kind  of  sound  be- 
tween an  indignant  exclamation  and  a  chuckle. 
An  odd  sound  it  was,  that  made  Marguerite 
look  Up,  and  wonder  what  he  was  thinking 
about. 

"  MisS'Georgy  has  recommended  this  plan, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes — and  Mrs.  Danby  too.  They  find 
me  so  useless  here,  and  they  say  my  French 
accent  will  make  it  easy  for  me  to  get  a  good 
situation.  The  only  thing  I  doubt  about  is 
Bello.  Do  you  think  it  likely  a  governess 
will  be  allowed  to  keep  a  dog  ?  " 

Mortimer's  reply  was  prevented  by  the  en- 
trance of  Danby,  who  carne  up  and  kissed 
Marguerite  kindly,  then  joked  her  upon 
flirting  with  Mortimer  in  the  dark. 

"  I  shall  tell  Georgy,"  he  said.  "  You 
must  know,  Maggy,  that  Mortimer  is  an  old 
admirer  of  hers." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  returned  Mortimer.  "  Yes,  I 
admired  the  whole  lot  at  Boulogne,  didn't  I? 
and  I  admire  them  more  this  evening  than  I 
ever  have  before,  even " 

"  Dinner  is  announced,"  broke  in  Mar- 
guerite, quickly,  afraid  lest  he  should  repeat 
her  half-confidences.  "  Who  will  take  me?" 
She  laid  her  little  hand  on  Mortimer's  arm, 
and  they  went  down  silently,  Danby  follow- 
ing. During  dinner  the  two  old  men  talked 
as  usual  about  their  cronies,  and  the  stocks, 
and  a  misty  kind  of  politics  of  their  own  ; 
while  Marguerite,  with  Bello  by  her  side,  for 
a  treat,  paid  very  little  attention  to  either  of 
them.  She  was  still  turning  over  the  gov- 
erness scheme  in  her  head,  and  thinking  that, 
after  all,  it  might  be  very  much  better  than 
her  present  life.  "  If  I  could  be  with  nice 
people,"  she  thought,  "  people  something 
more  like  my  father  or  Philip,  who  would  be 
kind  and  not  say  the  bitter  things  they  do 
here,  I  might  be  happy,  especially  if  the 
children  cared  for  me.  I  wonder  what  Ma- 
non  would  say,  if  she  knew  I  was  to  be  a 
governess  ?  " 

"  Lord  St.  Leger  is  on  the  verge  of  ruin 
again,  I  am  told,"  said  Mortimer,  in  the 
middle  of  a  small  radical  disquisition  upon 
the  aristocracy.  The  name  roused  Marguer- 
ite's attention  in  a  second,  she  remembered 
that  he  was  the  father  of  Philip's  wife.  "  I 
hear  all  about  it  from  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
once  had  the  folly  to  accept  some  of  his 
bills.  He  has  gambled  away  nearly  the 
whole  of  his  last  inheritance  already." 

"I  remember  the  man  well,  years  ago   in 


my  younger  days,  when  I  used  to  go  to  the 
Derby  and  Goodwood,"  said  Danby.  "  A 
cadaverous-looking  fellow  he  was,  and  a  pro- 
fessional gambler." 

"Yes;  he  has  been  black-balled  at  half 
the  clubs  in  London  ;  and  can  only  now  prey 
upon  his  fellow-sharks  or  young  lads  in  the 
dens  about  St.  James's  street." 

"  Has  he  any  sons?"  asked  Danby. 
"  No,  only  one  daughter;  and  she  made  a 
miserable  marriage  three  or  four  years  ago. 
She  married  Earnscliffe,  the  writer,  who  like 
all  other  geniuses,  was  a  bad  husband,  and 
after  two  or  three  years'  wretchedness  they 
separated." 

"What,  legally?" 

"Oh,  no! — nothing  of  that  kind.  Mere 
incompatability  of  temper.  You  know,  Dan- 
by, the  old  story." 

"  By-the-way,  Maggie  knows  Earnscliffe," 
said  Danby,  evading  the  question  of  domestic 
happiness. 

"Indeed!     Ah,    talking   of   authors,    do 

you  remember "  and  Mortimer  began  a 

very  long  story  about  somebody  they  had 
both  known  thirty  years  ago. 

He  had  never  looked  at  Marguerite — nev- 
er seen  the  sudden  flash,  the  paleness,  the 
nervous  clasp  of  her  hands,  at  the  mention 
of  Earnscliffe's  name — had  he  done  so,  her 
future  life  might  have  been  a  very  different 
one.  For  Mortimer  would  have  married  no 
woman  knowing  that  she  had  had  a  former 
lover. 

They  went  on  with  their  drowsy  talk  as 
before ;  but  all  Marguerite's  thoughts  were 
changed.  With  Earnscliffe's  name  came  back 
old  hopes,  old  dreams,  old  sunny  plans  for 
the  future.  Oh,  compared  with  these,  how 
blank  and  dreary  seemed  her  prospects  now  ! 
Her  head  drooped,  and  her  cheek  grew  so 
pale,  that  at  last  Danby  noticed  her ;  and 
he  exclaimed  abruptly — "Maggie  child! 
what  ails  you  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  cousin,"  she  answered,  mournfully. 

"  You  must  cheer  up,  my  dear,"  went  on 
Danby,  "  and  sing  to  us  presently  some  of 
your  French  ballads." 

"  I  could  not  sing  to-night.  I  have  a 
choking  sensation  in  my  throat.  Cousin,  do 
you  not  hear ;  I  can  scarcely  speak  ?  " 

"  Have  you  taken  cold,  child?  Were  we 
out  too  late  for  you  ?  " 

**  No,  it  is  not  that ;  I  am — oh,  cousin  !  M 
(with  a  sudden  outburst  of  tears)  "  I  am  SO 
wretched !  " 

"Marguerite!" — it  was  so  unlike  her  to 
complain  before  a  stranger,  that  Danby  knew 
her  sorrow  must  be  great — "  my  poor  child, 
you  shall  tell  me  all  this  another  time." 

"  Mr.  Mortimer  knows  ;  Mr.  Mortimer  is 
very  kind" — her  voice  grew  thick — "I  do 
not  mind  saying  it  before  him." 

"But  what  is  this  sudden  sorrow?  I 
know  "  he  spoke  hastily — "  what  Mrs.  Dan- 
by said  to  you  this  evening,  and  that  your 
feelings  were  hurt — not  more  deeply  than 


122 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


mine,  perhaps — but  that  is  nothing  new. 
You  have  had  to  bear  similar  things  be- 
fore." 

"  Cousin,  you  have  always  been  so  good, 
I  grieve  to  leave  you;  and  I  think  that 
is  one  of  my  greatest  troubles  to-night." 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  Mortimer,  "  I  hear  that 

£>u  are  going  to  lose  Miss  St.  John, 
anby." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it." 

"  Dear  cousin,  you  know  what  I  said  to 
you  to-day.  Well,  I  have  quite  made  up  my 
mind  now.  It  will  be  far  better  for  me  to  go 
out  as  a  governess." 

"  You  never  shall,  Marguerite — never  !  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer!  speak  for  me.  It 
may  be  hard  to  be  dependent  and  a  gover- 
ness ;  but  it  is  worse — far  worse — to  live 
with  relations  who  are  unkind  to  me !  I 
know  that  I  am  barely  tolerated  here,  and 
that  all  my  cousin:s  kindness  makes  him  more 
miserable  in  his  own  home.  Speak  for  me, 
sir ;  tell  him  that  it  would  be  far  better !  " 

Mr.  Mortimer  rose  and  walked  to  the  fire, 
looked  into  it  for  a  few  minutes,  then  turned 
round,  and  grasped  his  coat  tails ;  and, 
supported  and  flanked  as  it  were  by  this 
familiar  position  of  fifty  years'  standing,  he 
spoke  deliberately,  but  with  unusual  quick- 
ness for  him,  and  a  certain  agitation  of 
manner. 

"  Dan  by,  I'm  a  plain  spoken  man,  as  you 
know.  Miss  St.  John,  I'm  an  old  man,  as 
you  see.  I  can't  make  fine  speeches  to  either 
of  you,  but  this  I  have  to  say  :  If,  Miss  St. 
John,  you  will  not  forget  my  age,  and  my 
great  unfitness  to  be  your  husband,  but  over- 
look it.  and  become  my  wife,  you  shall  have 
settlements  a  duke's  daughter  might  be  proud 
of,  and  all  the  devotion  a  plain  old  fellow 
like  myself  can  offer." 

Danby  literally  sprang  from  his  chair  in 
astonishment. 

"  Mortimer,  are  you  in  earnest?  " 

**  I  don't  look  as  if  I  was  joking,  do  I  ?  " 

"  After  all  you  have  said  about  marrying 
in  one's  old  age,  to  offer  yourself  to  Maggy  ! 
Adopt  her,  man.  You  can  give  her  a  hap- 
pier home  than  mine,  adopt  her  as  your 
daughter.  She's  only  sixteen — she's  a 
child!" 

*'  Thank  you,  Danby.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  with  respect  to  my  own  determination 
long  before  to-night,  though  I  never  could 
bring  it  out.  I  only  wish  to  hear  what  Miss 
St.  John  says;  how  slut  takes  the  idea  of 
having  such  a  husband  as  me. !  " 

lie  bftd  never  glanced  at  her  yet,  since  he 
;  to  speak  ;  and  he  had  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  Danby,  even  while  addressing 
•rit".  But  now  he  turned  slightly  and 
i  at  h'-r.  lie  expected  to  see  her,  at 
i  little  a,ri':ite«l — it  is  conventional  to 
believe  that  yo'ing  women  are  8  >,  when  re- 
ceiving an  oll'-r  of  marriage,  even  from  a 
man  tour  times  their  own  age — to  see  her 
bl  ..sh,  or  tremble,  prrhap.s  shrink  from  him: 


but  Marguerite  did  neither.  She  watched 
him  intently — watching  the  real  emotions, 
the  earnestness  of  his  plain  face,  and  feeling 
with  delighted  surprise  that  again  one  human 
being  on  the  earth  had  conceived  an  affection 
for  her. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  at  length,  '*  you  are  very 
good.  I  little  thought  you  eared  so  much 
for  me.  How  can  I  thank  you  enough  for 
your  offer?"  rising  to  his  side  and  looking 
up  at  him. 

' '  Maggy !  " 

"  Miss  St.  John  !  am  I  indeed  so  happy?  ' 

Her  cool  acceptance  surprised  them  both. 
It  was  so  unlike  what  either  expected,  and 
for  a  moment  the  same  thought  flashed  across 
them:  "Can  money  so  readily  win  even 
her  fair,  young  heart?  "  But  one  glance  at 
her  face — that  face  where  all  the  sinless 
trust  of  childhood  yet  rested — undid  the  sus- 
picion ;  and  then  a  sharp  regret  ssnote  Dan- 
by as  he  thought  Marguerite  was  promising 
— she  knew  not  what — in  her  desire  to  leave 
his  house. 

"  Oh,  Maggy  !  I  wish  /  could  have  made 
you  happier." 

"  Dear  cousin,  you  have  done  your  best. 
It  was  the  others  who  never  liked  me " 

"  Miss  St.  John — Marguerite,  will  you 
indeed  accept  me?"  said  Mortimer,  very 
gently,  and  bending  over  her. 

*'  Yes,  sir,  if  you  will  be  troubled  with 
me." 

Mortimer  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead, 
"May  God  make  you  happy,  child!"  he 
said,  solemnly. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

MORTIMER  remained  late,  and  they  all 
sat  talking  round  the  fire.  Mortimer,  whose 
manner  had  still  the  quiet  agitation  of  some 
new-found  happiness,  although  Marguerite 
did  not  perceive  it,  arranged  everything  as  he 
thought  would  please  her  most;  where  he 
should  take  a  new  house — what  carriages — 
what  books — what  pictures — she  should  have. 

"And  Bello!"  added  Marguerite,  strok- 
ing the  old  hound,  as  he  pressed  do^e  up  by 
her  side,  "  Poor  Bello!  You  will  not  object 
to  him,  sir?  and  all  the  dear  old  b.»  >!;s  from 
home  when  they  come  ?  " 

••  Bverjrtbidg  of  yours,  Mis-;  St.  John,  will 
be  (if  value  to  me." 

"  Poor  old  Kerviint  !  "  she  went  on,  "  I 
suppose  it  will  be  sold  so. in,  or  let."1 

"  Well,  said  Dauby,  "  1  heard  from  the. 
agent  in  Paris  a  few  days  ago.  and  he  tells 
me  tliere  is  great  ditHciilty  in  liiidiu^  ;l  ten- 
ant for  such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  and 
that  it  will  lie  much  better  to  s.-ll.  A  neigh- 
boring farmer  has  made  a  tolerable  bid  tor 
it  already — he  wants  the  land/' 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


123 


"  And  he  will  destroy  the  garden,  perhaps 
pull  down  the  manoir  itself,"  added  Mar- 
guerite, sadly. 

'*  It  must  "pain  you  to  part  with  your  old 
house,  docs  it  not?  "  asked  Mortimer. 

*'  Yes,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it  belong- 
ing to  strangers.  However  it  must  be—-1' 

"  Not  now.  The  old  house  shall  be  kept 
as  it  is,  in  case  you  ever  like  to  pay  it  a 
visit.  It  would  be  a  pleasant  summer  ex- 
cursion." 

"  You  will  keep  Kersaint  ?  Oh  !  Mr.  Mor- 
timer ;  and  may  Manon  live  there,  and  poor 
Bruno  ?  Can  it  be  really  true  that  I  shall 
see  home  again  ?  Cousin,  I  am  so  happy  !  " 
springing  to  her  feet,  and  clasping  her  hands 
in  excitement. 

"  Poor  little  Maggy  !  You  look  brighter 
than  I  have  ever  seen  you.  I  wonder  what 
they  will  say !  "  added  Danby,  abruptly. 
They  always  meant  his  women-kind. 

Mortimer  chuckled  a  little.  **  It  will  be 
rather  a  surprise  for  Miss  Georgy,  I  imag- 
ine, this  failure  of  the  governess  scheme." 

"  I  am  sure  Georgy  will  be  glad,"  said 
Marguerite.  "  For  she  does  not  like  my 
living  here,  and " 

"  Well,  Maggy;  why  do  you  hesitate?  " 

'*  Oh !  Georgy  has  often  said  how  eccen- 
tric it  was  of  Mr.  Mortimer  not  to  marry  ;  so 
she  will  be  glad  to  see  him  married  at  last." 

"  Delighted,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  her 
'  mamma1  also!"  said  Mortimer,  drily. 

"  I  am  very  sure  they  will  be  delighted  at 
my  departure,  if  they  are  not  at  your  mar- 
riage," cried  Marguerite,  laughing.  "  But 
they  will  be  surprised !  Only  this  evening 
Mrs.  Danby  spoke  with  such  certainty  of 
my  being  a  governess." 

"A  governess!"  echoed  Mortimer,  half 
aloud.  "  Such  a  glorious  creature  as  that — 
a  governess ! " 

Certainly  Marguerite  did  not  look  much 
suited  for  one  at  that  moment,  as  she  stood 
before  him  in  an  attitude  of  the  most  child- 
like and  unconscious  grace — her  face  flushed, 
her  bright  curls  falling  in  a  perfect  cloud 
about  her  shoulders. 

"  Surely  you  never  thought  of  it  in  earn- 

"  Indeed  I  did;  although  my  cousin  was 
so  good  he  never  liked  to  hear  of  it.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  got  on  pretty  well.  I 
don't  know.  But,  oh  !  Mr.  Mortimer,  I  like 
my  new  prospects  so  much  better ;  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  a  home  again,  now  that  Kersaint  is 
not  to  be  sold,"  And  she  turned  her  eyes 
to  his  with  a  soft,  warm  expression  that  made 
Mortimer's  heart  thrill,  as  it  had  never  done 
during  his  sixty  years  of  hard  life. 

"Cousin  Danby  must  come  often;  must 
he  not,  to  see  us  ?  "  Us.  How  sweet  the 
word  sounded  from  her  lips !  "  Whenever 
you  are  alone  I  shall  hold  you  engaged  to 
me,  cousin — remember." 

•'  I  shall  miss  you  terribly,  Maggy.  Noth- 
ing but  the  thought  of  your  own  increased 


happiness  could  reconcile  me  to  your  mar- 
rying so  young.  You  seeia  such-a  child  still 
— not  seventeen,  and " 

"  Danby,  don't  begin  about  adopting 
again,"  interrupted  Mortimer,  quickly. 
"  You  have  preferred  marrying  a  lady  of 
experience ;  it  is  my  happiness  to  have  vron 
a  girl  of  sixteen." 

"  And  Heaven  grant  your  choice  may  turn 
out  the  best,  my  friend.  I  am  sure  I  ought 
not  to  offer  advice  on  such  subjects,  with  my 
own  fate  as  an  example  of  my  judgment  " 

A  thundering  double  knock  at  the  door 
here  made  the  quiet  trio  start,  and  Danby 
turn  quite  pale.  "Who  is  to  tell  them?" 
he  said,  nervously.  "  We  must  decide  at 
once." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Mortimer,  evidently  enjoy- 
ing his  friend's  discomposure.  "  Of  course, 
you  are  the  proper  person.  You  are  Miss  St. 
John's  guardian." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is— I  am  rather " 

"  Oh,  I  will,  cousin.  I  knew  you  would 
rather  not  say  it.  And  they  cannot  be  angry 
with  me  now  that  I  am  so  soon  to  leave." 
And  Marguerite  ran  to  open  the  door. 

Judging  from  the  tone  of  both  ladies  as 
they  entered,  their  dissipation  had  been  rath- 
er a  failure ;  at  least,  Mrs.  Danby  was  com- 
plaining peevishly  of  fatigue,  and  Georgy,  in 
no  pleasant  voice,  was  expressing  her  dis- 
gust for  some  person  or  persons  unknown. 

"  I  knew  them  so  well  at  Baden-Baden, 
and  afterwards  at  Boulogne,  and  to-night 
they  scarcely  looked  at  me — never  returned 
my  bow.  What  are  you  doing,  Marguerite, 
up,  still?  Go  and  cut  me  some  sandwiches, 
and  move  quick,  Miss."  Pushing  her  rude- 
ly aside.  "  I  want  to  come  in  and  warm  my 
feet." 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Georgy." 

"  Move  away,  Miss  St.  John,"  cried  Mrs. 
Danby's  sharp  voice.  "  This  dog  again!" 
as  Bello's  gaunt  face  peered  through  the  open 
door.  "  For  the  last  time,  I  say,  I  will  not 
suffer  it." 

**  Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer  !  "  exclaimed  Georgy, 
in  a  suddenly  cheerful  voice,  as  she  caught 
sight  of  him.  "  I  did  not  know  you  were 
here.  Marguerite,  love,  why  did  you  not 
tell  me?" 

They  both  entered  and  shook  hands  with 
Mortimer,  who  greeted  them  in  his  usual 
quiet  way.  "  An  unexpected  pleasure  !  You 
did  not  tell  me  that  Mr.  Mortimer  was  com- 
ing to  dine  with  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dan- 
by. 

Danby  knew  what  that  "  dear"  portend- 
ed, and  replied,  "  No,  ma'am ;  Maggy  and 
I  were  so  tired  when  we  came  in,  that  we 
forgot  all  about  it,  didn't  we,  Maggy  ? " 
He  looked,  and  spoke  nervously,  wondering 
all  the  time  how  his  wife  would  take  the  news, 
and  what  his  own  life  would  be  for  some 
months  after  the  stock-broker  had  proposed 
for  "  Maggy,"  not  Miss  de  Burgh. 

"  Take    away    my    cloak,    Marguerite," 


124 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


whispered  Georgy ;  she  had  of  late  tried  to 
convert  Marguerite  into  a  sort  of  waiting- 
maid  for  herself.  "And  tell  me  how  my 
hair  looks." 

*'  Very  uncurled/'  Marguerite  replied, 
meekly,  taking  away  her  cousin's  wraps,  and 
laying  them  on  a  table.  "  But  it  does  not 
much  signify.  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  eve- 
ning?;' 

"  Never  mind,"  was  the  rejoinder  ;  but  in 
a  tone  too  low  of  course  for  the  guest  to  hear. 

"  How  d.ire  you  sit  alone  in  this  way  when 
there  was  a  visitor  ?  Your  face  so  red,  and 
your  hair  all  flung  about  in  that  ridiculous 
manner.  You  shall  have  it  cut  before  you 
go  out  as  governess." 

**  Georgy,  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  shall 
not  trouble  you  long  now." 

Mortimer  heard  her  voice  in  a  second,  and 
came  a  step  nearer. 

*'  Miss  de  Burgh,  it  seems  you  are  to  lose 
your  young  friend  soon.  You  will  be  lonely 
without  her." 

Georgy  was  sweet  and  affectionate  in  a 
moment,  and  regretted  that  circumstances 
compelled  dear  Marguerite  to  go  out  on  the 
world,  and  so  on. 

"Well,"  returned  Mortimer,  "most 
young  ladies  go  out  in  a  similar  way,  and  ap- 
pear rather  anxious  to  do  so  than  otherwise.11 

'*  Ah,  yes  ;  and  Marguerite  is  very  patient, 
poor  thing." 

"  I  hope  her  patience  will  never  be  so 
much  tried  again,  Miss  de  Burgh,  as  it  has 
been  lately." 

"Marguerite!"  said  Georgy,  looking 
round  sharply  at  her,  with  an  expression  that 
plainly  said,  "  Have  you  dared  to  complain  ?  " 

"  Explain,  Maggy,  explain,"  Danby  in- 
terrupted. "  Mortimer  and  Georgy  are  at 
cross  purposes." 

"  The  truth  is,  then,"  said  Marguerite, 
very  calmly  and  quite  composed,  as  she  ad- 
dressed herself  to  both  the  women,  "  all  my 
prospects  have  changed  this  evening.  After 
you  had  left  I  thought  deeply  over  what  you 
have  so  often  recommended  to  me,  and  de- 
cided it  would  really  be  best  to  follow  your 
advice — although  cousin  Danby  would  not 
hear  of  it — and  become  a  governess.  I  men- 
tioned this  before  Mr.  Mortimer,  and — you 
will  scarcely  believe  in  such  kindness— lie 
has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  live  in  his 
bouse  for  ever." 

"  Mr.  Mortimer — to  marry  you  !"  gasped 
Georgy. 

"  Impossible  ! "  said  .Mrs.  Danby. 

But  Mortimer's  face  soon  shoued  them  that 
it  was  only  to-»  true;  and  they  had  to  force 
out  Mimetliing  like  congratulations. 

"  You  must  really  excuse  our  surprise," 
«aid  Georgy,  at  length,  with  a  desperate  at- 
tempt at  .-prightlinc.ss  ;  "  but  we  have  always 
looked  upon  you  as  such  :i  confirmed  old 
bachelor,  Mr.  Mortimer.  However,  1  hope 
your  marriage  may  prove  a  happy  one." 

•'  Thank  you,  ma'am  ;   I  believe  it  will.     /, 


at  least,  have  every  prospect  of  happiness,  if 
Miss  St.  John  can  be  content ;  "  and  he  drew 
Marguerite  to  him  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shining  curls. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THERE  were  few  preliminaries  to  be  gone 
through  before  the  marriage.  Mortimer 
wished  it  to  take  place  at  once ;  and  Mar- 
guerite did  not  plead  for  delay.  He  made 
the  most  ample,  unconditional  settlements 
upon  her ;  took  a  new  house  at  Wimbledon, 
with  gardens  and"  conservatories  to  suit  her 
taste ;  bought  pianos,  pictures,  books — 
everything  that  could  externally  make  the 
home  of  a  young  girl  happy. 

And  Marguerite?  She  was  very  calm  at 
first.  Simply  and  childishly  happy  in  the 
thought  of  her  release  from  the  De  Burghs, 
or  the  prospect  of  being  a  governess,  deeply 
grateful  to  Mortimer  for  his  kindness  in 
marrying  her,  and  giving  her  such  a  home ; 
and  for  some  time  she  connected  all  this 
scarcely  at  all  with  Philip  and  the  unaltered 
love  she  still  bore  him.  But  as  the  day  ap- 
proached, when  the  wedding-dresses  were 
actually  being  made,  and  the  thought  was 
realised  of  her  approaching  marriage,  her 
spirits  sank,  her  color  went  and  came,  her 
manner  was  fitful  and  nervous. 

"You  are  not  repenting  your  decision, 
Maggy?"  said  Danby,  one  evening,  when 
they  were  alone,  and  he  had  been  intently 
watching  her  face  for  some  time.  "  It  is  still 
not  too  late." 

"  My  decision — about  what,  cousin  ?  "  with 
a  slight  start.  "  Had  I  anything  in  particu- 
lar to  decide  upon  to  day  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  silks  and  pearls, 
or  patterns  of  damask  and  ormolu,  Mar- 
guerite; but  of  the  great  decision — your 
decision  of  marrying  Mortimer.  Do  you 
ever  wish  it  revoked  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Marguerite,  slowly,  and 
without  raising  her  head  ;  "it  was  to  be,  I 
suppose.  I  had  no  other  prospect  ;  and 
Mr.  Mortimer  seems  very  well  content.  I 
am  sure  Mr.  Mortimer  will  he  kind  to  me. 
1  heard  from  Manon,  my  nurse,  to-day,  in 
answer  to  my  announcement,  and  she  is  SO 
delighted,  and  thinks  it  such  a  good  thing 
for  me.  Although  she  is  only  a  servant, 
Manon  is  very  sharp-sighted,  and  I  am  glad 
to  hear  her  opinion.  How  much  she  v  ill 
think  of  me  next  Thursday."1 

"Next  Thursday!"  repeated  Danby. 
"  Onlv  three  days  more!  She  has  never 
known  love,"  he  thought,  as  he  continued  to 
watch  her  almost  infantine  face.  "  She  can- 
not realise  the  sacrifice  of  all  such  feeling  that 
she  is  making  in  marrying  an  old  man.  Her 
PCI  feet  ignorance  will  In-  her  safeguard.11 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


125 


The  two  following  days  passed  by — the 
evening  before  the  marriage  came — and 
Marguerite  was  looking  at  the  white  silk  and 
orange  blossoms  she  was  to  wear  next  morn- 
ing. A  vague,  wild  hope  was  there,  that  yet 
it  would  never  be  ;  that  at  the  last  something 
would  happen,  some  one  die — Philip  appear, 
and  tell  her  that  he  was  free,  and  she  would 
marry  him.  She  could  not  feel, that  to-mor- 
row she  would  be  Mortimer's  wife  ;  and  once, 
when  she  woke  suddenly  from  a  dream  of 
old  days  in  the  night,  the  desperate  thought 
crossed  her,  even  now,  to  break  it  all  off — 
return  and  live  at  Kersaint  with  Manon — do  ' 
anything,  rather  than  place  another  barrier  I 
against  the  possibility  of  ever  becoming  j 
Philip's.  But  with  the  morning  came  Georgy  ; 
to  help  her  to  dress,  and  she  heard  the  un- 
usual stir  of  servants  in  the  house,  and  the 
gun  shone  cheerfully  into  her  room,  as  with  a 
good  ornen  for  her  happiness,  and  the  half- 
formed  resolve  vanished. 

"  You  do  look  well,  I  must  confess,11  said 
Miss  de  Burgh,  when  the  bride's  dress  wits 
completed.  "  Toilette  de  Mariee  is  so 
exactly  suited  for  peach-colored  complexions 
and  downcast  blue  eyes.  I  never  could  look 
the  bride  that  you  do ;  and  then,  as  you 
don't  intend  to  cry,  the  effect  will  not  be 
spoiled.  Most  girls  cry,  you  know,  and 
red  eyes  are  the  result ;  but  that  is  not  your 
style." 

"  When  girls  are  leaving  home,"  said 
Marguerite,  gently — so  gently  that  even 
Georgy  softened—"  I  can  imagine  their 
crying,  but  there  is  nothing  to  make  me  shed 
tears." 

"  Your  home  has  not  been  too  happy  here 
I  must  confess." 

'*  Oh,  my  cousin  Danby  has  been  very 
kind;  and,  if  you  have  not  liked  me,  per- 
haps it  has  been  my  own  fault.  I  hope  you 
will  often  come  and  see  me  now.11 

Upon  which  Miss  de  Burgh  kissed  her 
with  great  unction,  and  was  sure,  if  she  had 
ever  hurt  dear  Marguerite's  feelings,  she 
wished  to  be  forgiven. 

Marguerite  being  of  course  still  in  mourn- 
ing, the  wedding  was  to  be  a  very  quiet  one ; 
so  there  was  only  a  small  party  at  breakfast. 
It  went  off  as  such  things  generally  do. 
Miss  Georgy  was  in  an  hysterical  kind  of 
good  spirits,  Mortimer  radiant,  Danby  very 
silent;  but  Marguerite,  who  had  kept  up 
pretty  well  hitherto,  grew  paler  as  the  day 
proceeded ;  and  when,  at  last,  her  lace  and 
orange-flowers  were  exchanged  for  a  travel- 
ling-dress, and  the  moment  arrived  for  her 
and  Mortimer  to  leave  together,  the  very 
liue  of  death  was  upon  her  face.  Pie  felt  her 
tremble  violently  as  she  entered  the  carriage, 
partially  saw  the  stricken  expression  of  her 
features  when  she  first  found  herself  alone 
with  him,  and  thought  it  was  all  girlish  timid- 
ity. 

4<  Philip,  till  this  moment  I  never  knew 
half  my  love  for  you ! "  was  her  thought. 


And  so  they  started  for  their  honeymoon 
in  the  Isle  of 'Wight. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

FOR  some  time  after  Philip's  arrival  in 
Rome,  he  was  as  silent  and  misanthropic  as 
is  the  wont  of  disappointed  lovers.  His  ex- 
periment of  going  into  the  world  again  had 
proved  so  signal  a  failure  in  Paris  that  he 
now  went  into  the  opposite  extreme,  shunning 
all  companionship  but  that  of  Neville  and  a 
few  of  his  artist  friends,  and  wandering  like 
a  ghost  among  churches  and  picture-galleries, 
taking  lonely  rides  in  the  Campagna,  and 
being  excessively  brief  with  any  unfortunate 
English  people  who  made  advances  to  him. 
When,  by  chance,  he  was  forced  into  any 
kind  of  society,  he  compared  the  English- 
women he  met  with  Marguerite,  and  they  dis- 
gusted him.  Their  faces  had  no  glow,  their 
voices  no  music,  after  hers ;  and  he  came 
back  to  their  lodgings — Neville  and  he  lived 
together — invariably  with  a  fresh  accession 
of  ill-humor  on  these  occasions. 

You   should  go  more  among  foreigners, 


Phil,"    said   Neville,   one    evenim 


You 


would  get  on  better  with  them  ;  and  the  Ital- 
ian women  would  be  sure  to  like  you,  with 
your  pale  face  and  se  ntimental  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Let  us  speak  of  a  more  interesting  sub- 
ject, Neville.  I  am  wearv  of  the  whole  sex 
— English,  French,  or  Italian." 

"  A  la  bonne  heure  !     I  wish  from  my  soul 
you  were.     But  you  are  only  in  a  state  of  re- 
bound.    I  know  you  so  well.     Just  the  state 
I  from  which  men  fall  into  their  worst   errors 
!  Some   pretty   face    will   arise,  and  undo  all 
|  your  woman-hatred  in  an  hour.     The  carni- 
val is  next  week  !  " 

••  I  shall  go  into  the  country  while  it  lasts. 
It  makes  rne  sick  to  see  the  buffoonery  with 
which  human  beings  can  be  amused." 

"  Well,  I  am  one  of  the  common  herd  ;  I 
shall  lock  up  my  studio,  and  be  as  happy  as 
any  school-boy  of  fourteen.  It  does  the  eye 
and  brain  good  to  be  relieved  from  work  a 
few  days :  one  returns  to  it  with  such  zest 
afterwards.  And  then  there  are  groups  of 
form  and  color  to  be  seen  in  the  carnival 
I  better  worth  studying  than  the  old  masters 
themselves." 

"  You  have  such  an  object  in  life,  Neville ! 
Everything  is  sweet  to  you  that  can  minister  in 
the  slightest  degree  to  your  one  passion — 
ambition." 

"  Why  do  you  not  call  it  love  of  my  art? 
But  you  would  be  far  happier  too,  Earns- 
clitfe,  with  any  '  one  passion,'  as  you  are 
pleased  to  term  it.  Your  longing  for  dis- 
tinction was  feverish  once ;  but,  as  soon  aa 


126 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


won,  you  are  wearied  of  it,  as  of  everything 
else !  " 

44  I  have  not  wearied  of  anything.  Exact- 
ly that  of  which  I  could  never  weary,  I  have 
never  possessed." 

44  The  reason  why  you  think  it  beyond  the 
reach  of  satiety." 

"  You  have  never  loved,  Neville.  It  is  a 
subject  utterly  beyond,  or  beneath  you." 

**  You  are  wrong,  both  in  fact  and  infer- 
ence. I  have  loved,  and  with  an  intensity 
equal  to  your  own — perhaps  greater,  for  1 
have  only  loved  once,  and  I  have  analysed 
the  passion  as  deeply  as  you  have  done." 

44  Neville,  you  have  actually  loved ! " 

"  I  am  past  thirty." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  every  man  feels  what  he 
dignifies  by  that  name.  Not  one  out  of  a 
hundred  love." 

*'  I  have,  and  have  been  deceived,  like  the 
rest  of  us.  But  to  return  to  yourself.  You 
believe  that  if  you  had  possessed  the  object 
of  your  last  adoration  (you  have  made  such 
half-confidences  that  I  shall  probably,  unwit- 
tingly, hurt  your  feelings),  your  heaven 
would  have  lasted ;  that,  having  lost  it,  you 
and  she  will  be  eternally  miserable.  My 
friend,  you  will  be  a  very  happy  man  five 
years  hence,  when  you  have  passed  the  age 
of  sentiment,  and  are  beginning  to  care  for 
position,  and  have  entered  the  House  and 
shone  in  your  first  speech ;  and  as  to  the 
young  lady,  perhaps  she  is  married  by  this 
time — at  all  events,  she  will  not  be  constant 
to  your  memory  for  a  year." 

44  She  may  marry  :  she  will  not  forget  me  !  " 
replied  Philip. 

44  And  so  add  another  to  the  scores  of 
guileless  young  creatures  who  every  year 
swear  to  love  and  honor  one  man  with  the 
warm  words  of  another  yet  thrilling  in  their 
heart !  I  thought  your  idols  were  all  perfect, 
Phil." 

44  This  one  was  !  Too  perfect  for  you  and 
me  to  speak  of,  Neville." 

"  Thank  you.  Well,  we  will  profane  her 
no  longer.  Come  and  tell  me  how  you  like 
my  last  sketch." 

Philip  rose  to  look,  and  their  conversa- 
tion dropped  for  the  present:  but  the  next 
morning,  when  they  were  wandering  beneath 
some  ruins  a  few  miles  from  Rome,  he  return- 
ed to  it. 

44  Neville,  tell  me  more  of  your  own  love. 
1  am  in  a  state  when  it  is  pleasant  to  hear  of 
the  disappointment  of  one's  friends !  " 

Neville  seated  himself  on  a  broken  frag- 
ment of  marble,  and  leisurely  drew  from  his 
pocket,  first  a  cigar-case,  then  his  sketch- 
book. 

44  I  will  talk  of  my  love,  mon  ami,  if  there 
is  any  chance  of  curing  your*  by  doingso;  but 
I  must  smoke  and  sketch  at  the  .same  time. 
Jt  is  a  subject  that  send*  me  to  sleep  by  itself: 
it  requires  accompaniments." 

44  Give  me  a  cigarette,  Neville." 


44  Ah,  you  are  mending !  You  have  re- 
fused to  smoke  hitherto." 

"  The  open  air — the  fact  of  lying  at  one's 
length  among  the  dasies — makes  smoking  a 
necessity." 

44  Don't  apologise.  I  have  seen  you  look 
enviously  at  my  meerschaum  every' evening 
for  the  last  week,  and  knew  what  was  coming. 
I  cannot  conceive  why  you  ever  gave  it  up. 
In  my  troubles — when  the  committee  of  the 
R.  A.  rejected  my  first  picture  and  hung  my 
second  ten  feet  high  in  the  octagon-room,  for 
example  — I  smoked  more  fierce  than  ever." 

44  And  in  your  love  affair?  " 

Neville  smoked  away  in  silence,  and  half- 
closed  his  eyes,  as  though  intently  watching 
the  effect  of  light  and  shadow  upon  the  blue 
Campagna,  but  there  was  a  dreamy  look 
upon  his  face. 

41  It  was  years  ago,"  he  exclaimed,  sud- 
denly; 4'  I  was  quite  a  boy." 

44  And  which  was  false  ? — or  was  either?  " 

44  Philip,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  remembrance  ; 
but  as  you  seem  to  care  about  it,  you  shall 
hear.  I  started  in  life  young:  you  remem- 
ber what  I  was  when  I  left  Harrow.  I  came 
at  once  to  London,  with  few  friends,  no  con- 
nection ;  and  I  had  to  make  my  way  alone 
unassisted,  except  by  my  own  energy. 

41 1  lodged  in  the  house  of  a  Scotchwoman, 
a  widow,  and  a  person  of  a  certain  position 
in  life.  She  kept  a  kind  of  boarding-house 
for  young  men — medical  students,  young  ar- 
tists like  myself,  who  preferred  this  kind  of 
life  to  common  lodgings  or  chambers.  The 
house  was  respectable ;  I  was  recommended 
to  it  by  decent  people;  and  everything  was 
in  appearance  quiet  and  as  it  should  be. 

44  This  Scotchwoman  had  an  only  daugh- 
ter, a  girl  of  seventeen,  lovely  as  an  angel, 
with  fair,  bright  hair  and  Madonna-like  eyes, 
that  seemed  too  soft  to  reflect  any  human  pas- 
sion. All  the  young  men  in  the  house  ad- 
mired her,  of  course ;  but  I,  before,  I  had 
been  there  three  weeks,  was  wildly  in  love 
with  her.  I  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep;  I 
trembled  if  her  dress  touched  me  as  she  pass- 
ed ;  it  maddened  me  if  she  spoke  or  smiled 
with  another  man.  She  haunted  me  till  I 
could  not  draw  a  line ;  and  my  companions 
all  used  to  laugh  at  my  white  lace  and  my  al- 
tered manner.  In  short,  I  loved  her  as  boys 
can  love. 

44  I  got  over  my  timidity  ami  spoke.  She 
trembled,  she  Mushed,  faltered,  and  burst  in- 
to tears.  4  It  was  madness;  we  must  not 
think  of  it,  we  were  so  young.  Hut  she 
loved  me  ! '  I  went  half  wild  with  < 
of  happiness. 

"  With  stolen  interviews,  a  whispered 
word  when  we  passed  each  other  on  the, 
stairs,  a  pressure  of  her  hand  night  and 
morning,  1  was  fiirced  to  be  content  (or  some 
months.  Hut  at  length  I  grew  impatient. 
I  told  her  that  I  would  wait  no  longer  ;  either 
she  must  My  with  me  and  become  my  wife  by 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


127 


a  Scotch  marriage,  or  I  would  leave  her  for- 
ever ;  I  could  not  live  on  in  the  same  house 
any  longer  and  be  as  strangers.  She  hesita- 
ted, wavered,  consented  to  become  mine. 
Phil,  even  now  I  feel  the  rapture  of  that 
moment." 

Neville  drew  his  wide,  artist-hat  more  over 
his  eyes,  as  though  to  shade  them  from  the 
slanting  sun,  and  leisurely  cut  one  of  his 
pencils,  but  his  hand  trembled  very  slightly. 

"We  planned  to  go  to  Scotland,  and  be 
married ;  then  return  at  once,  and  ask  her 
mother's  forgiveness ;  and  I  should  work  for 
both,  and  we  should  all  live  happily  together. 
This  was  the  project.  As  you  may  imagine, 
I  had  very  little  money — not  enough  to  take 
two  people  half-way  to  Scotland ;  and,  with 
much  shame,  I  was  obliged  to  confess  this 
to  rny  beloved,  and  to  tell  her  that  a  few 
days1  delay  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  try 
and  obtain  sufficient  for  the  journey.  To 
my  surprise,  she  answered  by  taking  a  little 
purse  full  of  gold  from  her  pocket,  and  lay- 
ing it  in  my  hand.  '  It  was  a  present  from 
her  god-father.  She  had  had  it  for  years.' 

"  I  don't  know  whether  the  circumstance 
aroused  any  suspicions  in  my  mind,  or  wheth- 
er it  was  a  kind  of  natural  instinct ;  but, 
after  I  had  taken  the  purse  and  carried  it 
away  with  me,  I  felt  strangely  excited  and 
ill  at  ease.  Though  I  believed  her  implicity, 
the  thought  would  arise,  '  Why  had  she  so 
much  money?  was  it  girl-like  so  quickly  to 
offer  it?' 

"  We  had  settled  to  elope  that  very  night, 
and  I  had  gone  out  of  the  house  to  evade 
suspicions,  but  was  to  return  silently  when 
every  one  was  still,  and  we  should  then  steal 
out  together.  I  remember  I  walked  on  and 
on  through  the  crowded  streets,  but  saw  noth- 
ing that  was  passing  around ;  I  felt  dull  and 
stupefied,  as  though  under  the  influence  of 
some  narcotic.  I  at  length  turned  my  steps 
homewards,  resolving  to  remain  quietly  in 
my  own  little  attic  at  the  top  of  the  house 
until  the  appointed  hour. 

"  I  entered  with  my  latch-key,  and  met 
one  of  the  women-servants  in  the  passage. 
4  Where  was  Mrs.  M ?  '  I  asked,  as  cool- 
ly as  I  could.  '  Gone  out.'  '  And  Miss ?  ' 

4  Oh,  in  her  own  room ;  she  was  not  very 
well.'  This  was  so  exactly  like  the  plan  we 
Bad  determined  upon,  that  I  felt  re-assured, 
and  ran  upstairs  towards  my  own  room, 
when,  on  the  second  floor,  I  heard  voices 
that  arrested  me  in -a  moment.  Hers — I 
should  have  known  its  slightest  sound  among 
a  thousand — and  that  of  a  man. 

"Her  own  room  was  on  the  first  floor; 
that  from  whence  the  voice  came  was  a  small 
sitting-room  of  her  mother's,  to  which  none 
of  the  boarders  were  usually  admitted.  I 
walked  up  to  the  door.  I  stood  still  there, 
and  listened  (for  the  only  time  in  my  life, 
Phil,  it  was  excusable  at  such  a  moment) — 
listened  and  heard — thank  God !  not  my 
shame,  for  she  was  not  yet  my  wife. 


"  I  must  tell  you  there  was  one  inmate  of 
the  house,  towards  whom  I  had  always  felt 
an  uncontrollable  dislike,  a  young  Pole  of 
high  birth,  and  rich,  but  who  was  boarding 
in  the  family  for  the  sake  of  learning  Eng- 
lish. He  was  there  some  months  before  I 
came,  and  I  had  never  anything  to  do  with 
him ;  but  a  certain  air  of  impertinent  supe- 
riority in  his  manner  made  me  conceive  an 
instant  dislike  for  him  the  first  day  we  met. 
I  never  saw  him  speak  to  Miss  M ,  be- 
yond a  passing  word  of  recognition  at  din- 
ner, if  he  was  placed  near  her.  Indred, 
she  seemed  less  friendly  with  him  than  with 
any  of  the  other  young  men,  towards  most 
of  whom  I  had  in  turn  entertained  some 
boyish  jealousy. 

"  She  loved  him.  Had  loved  him  long- 
guiltily,  as  I  knew  the  first  moment  I  heard 
the  tones  of  their  voices  together.  And  the 
money  that  was  to  have  assisted  in  making 
her  my  wife  came  from  him ! 

"  *  Difference  of  position,'  I  heard  him 
say,  *  would  not  allow  him  to  make  her  the 
reparation  of  marriage.  But  Neville  will 
do  it,'  he  added,  laughing,  '  and  we  can 
hoodwink  him  hereafter,  as  we  have  done 
already.' 

44 1  entered  the  room  at  once ;  not  burst- 
ing with  fury,  as  you  might  imagine,  but 
quite  cool  and  collected ;  only  I  felt  that  my 
face  was  bloodless,  and  my  teeth  clenched. 

44  'Good  God!'  she  exclaimed,  starting 
up,  and  advancing  towards  me  for  a  second, 
then  shrinking  back  to  him  as  though  for 
protection.  I  only  looked  at  her  once—- 
never spoke  to  her;  but  I  walked  up  to  him. 

44.4  Monsieur  Neville,  your  return  is  unex- 
pected, and,  permit  me  to  say,  undesirable. 
You  have  mistaken  your  room,  I  think.' 

44  Phil,  I  wonder  I  did  not  kill  him,  for  I 
had  the  strength  of  a  young  Hercules  at  all 
times,  and  now  the  whole  fire  of  my  nature 
was  up !  I  dragged  him  to  the  top  of  the 
landing — lost  though  she  was,  I  respected 
her  presence  sufficiently  for  this — and  then, 
I  repeat,  I  wonder  I  did  not  kill  him  !  When 
his  cowardly  white  face  was  undistinguish- 
able  from  the  mass  of  blows  I  had  rained 
upon  it,  I  hurled  him  with  all  my  force  down 
stairs ;  and  have  a  dim  recollection  of  wo- 
men shrieking,  and  doctors  being  sent  for, 

and  Mrs.  M wringing  her  hands  as  she 

came  in  and  found  her  best  lodger  lying  a 
bleeding  mass  in  the  passage ;  but  I  left  the 
house  without  even  collecting  my  things,  and 
saw  none  of  them  again. 

44  Of  course,  I  expected  to  hear  from  the 
count,  for  he  was'nt  dead;  but  no  message 
came,  and  one  of  the  other  boarders,  a  fellow- 
student  of  mine,  told  me  they  seemed  anx- 
ious to  hush  the  matter  up,  and  prevent  it 
from  being  known  out  of  the  house. 

44  Two  or  three  days  afterwards  I  discover- 
ed the  purse  still  in  my  pocket,  and  sent  it 

back  to  Miss  M by  my  friend,  who  was 

just  going  to  leave  for  Italy  ,*  and  from  that 


123 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


day  I  never  liave  known  what  became  of 
her,  or  whether  the  mother  had  connived  at 
the  whole  tiling  or  not.  In  short,  I  have 
never  heard  their  name,  nor  have  breathed 
it  until  now.  But,  Phil,  I  have  never  loved 
again.  Loved,  mind ;  for  that  was  pure, 
perfect  love.  I  have  felt  as  others  do  a  doz- 
en times. 

.  "Pah!  my  cigar  is  out.  Give  me  a  light, 
old  fellow,  and  let  us  go  on  before  the  noon- 
day heat.  I  can  finish  my  sketch  at  home." 

They  walked  on  silently  for  some  time, 
then  Philip  exclaimed,  "  But  you  must  ad- 
mit, Neville,  that  yours  was  an  entirely  ex- 
ceptional case,  one  from  which  no  sweeping 
deduction  can  be  drawn." 

"Yes,  in  the  utter  depravity  of  so  young 
a  girl,  it  was  exceptional.  Without  precise- 
ly resembling  my  own  case,  however,  are 
there  not  thousands  of  others  where  one  or 
both  have  been  as  miserably  infatuated,  then 
deceived  ?  Look  at  yourself,  you  have  been 
so  a  dozen  times  already." 

44  Ah !  but  none  of  this  dozen  was  the 
true  one.  You  confuse  the  Eros  with  the 
Anteros.  I  have  not  been  deceived  now." 

44  Well !  "  replied  Neville,  impatiently, 
*4  but  something — circumstance — Fate — what 
you  will,  has  stepped  in  and  thwarted  your 
devotion  and  your  happiness.  Give  up  such 
love,  as  I  have  done.  Be  content  with  the 
common  hopes,  the  coarser  pleasures  of  hu- 
manity." 

'*  I  wish  I  could,"  returned  Philip. 

******* 

Late  in  the  evening  of  this  day,  when  Ne- 
ville was  at  work,  and  Earnscliffe,  lazily  out- 
stretched, was  reading  the  English  papers, 
an  exclamation  broke  from  him  which  made 
the  artist  start  round. 

*'  Good  God  !  Neville,  she  is  married  !  " 

The  Times  fell  from  his  hands,  and  Ne- 
ville, picking  it  up,  read  at  the  head  of  the 
list  of  marriages,  "William  Charles  Morti- 
mer, of  Portland  Place,  London,  and  Chest- 
nut Grove,  Wimbledon,  Esquire,  to  Mar- 
guerite Lilla,  only  child  of  the  late  Percy  St. 
John,  of  Kersaint  Manoir,  Brittany,  Es- 
quire." 

44  It  is  soon,  Phil;  sooner  than  I  expect- 
ed. But  it  was  sure  to  be  so;  and  these 
things  are  much  better  4  got  over '  at  once. 
If  your  wife  had  died  you  might  have  mar- 
ried Mi-s  Si.  John,  and  both  have  been 
wretched  for  lif< — it  is  much  better  as  it  is.v 

"  She  will  not  forget  me!"  said  Philip, 
abstractedly. 

' 4  The  devil  she  wont !  "  exclaimed  Ne- 
ville. "  A  pli-a<ant  prospect  for  William 
Charles  Mortimer,  of  Portland  I'lace  and 
Chi-Mnul  Grove!  However,  I  suppose  \ou 
will  return  to  life,  now  that  the  dream  is 
over." 

••  It  is  not  over.  My  love  was  just  as  hope- 
less before  a.s  it  is  now  that  we  arc  both 
tied,  yet  I  indulged  it." 

44  VV'jll,  for  every  body 's  sake,  it  is  to  be 


desired  that  you  will  keep  away  from  Eng- 
land— lor  the  present  at  least.  When  Mrs. 
Mortimer  is  an  elderly  matron,  with  grown- 
up children,  you  might  see  her  again  with 
safety." 

44  I  have  no  wish  to  do  so,  I  can  assure 
you.  Except  an  occasional  visit  to  my  un- 
cle, while  he  lives,  I  shall  spend  my  life 
abroad." 

44  A  few  years  of  it  only.  The  objectless, 
nugatory  life  of  continental  Englishmen  would 
not  suit  you  after  thirty,  as  it  may  now." 

44  I  shall  begin  a  new  book  to-morrow," 
said  Philip,  after  a  long  silence. 

4 'Bravo!  You  would  not  have  written 
for  six  months  to  come  but  for  Miss  St.  John's 
marriage.  And,  Philip,  I  predict  that  this 
will  be  your  best  work — better  even  than 
that  famous  one  wherein  you  felled  and 
trampled  upon  all  your  great  friends.  I  sup- 
pose womenkind  will  come  in  for  their  share 
of  sarcasm  in  this?  " 

44  On  the  contrary,  there  will  be  very  lit- 
tle about  them.  I  am  weary  of  the  subject." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Two  years  had  now  elapsed  since  Mar- 
guerite's marriage — two  uuchequered  and 
serene  years,  wherein  no  one  month  had 
greatly  differed  from  the  preceding  or  fol- 
lowing ones.  But  surrounded  by  all  that 
wealth  can  give,  and  Mortimer  unchanged 
in  his  kindness  and  devotion,  her  life  palled 
heavily  upon  her.  The  worn  out  simile  of  a 
bird  imprisoned  in  a  golden  cage  could  never 
have  been  more  aptly  employed.  She  rose 
each  day,  and  her  French  lady's  maid  attired 
her  in  her  elegant  morning  dress  ;  she  break- 
fasted with  Mortimer  from  Sevres  and  Dres- 
den, after  which  he  started  for  the  City,  and 
then  she  had  only  herself  to  please  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day.  She  might  look  at 
her  costly  rooms,  or  walk  into  her  conserva- 
tories and  gaze  at  their  rare  contents,  or  or- 
der her  carriage  or  her  horse,  or  play  on  her 
magnificent  piano,  until  dinner-time;  then 

Sevres  and  Dresden  and  her  husband  again. 
Alter  dinner  lie  fell  asleep,  and  there  was 
the  evening  to  be  passed  in  somewhat  tho 

same  manner  as  the  morning. 

Oh,  how  she  wearied  oi  it  all  !  With  ;i 
feverish  longing  she  would  think  of  her  old 
free  life,  that  sweet,  untrammelled  liberty  of 
her  childhood,  and  (eel  how  gladly  she  would 
give  all  that  she  now  possessed  to  return  to 
it.  No  (lower  in  her  conservatory  gave  her 
the  pleasure  of  those  wild-Howers  on  the 
IJreton  heaths.  She  felt  that  her  lile  was 
void;  and  although  her  great  JWeetnesa  of 
temper,  ami  the  real  regard  and  gratitude 
slit-  (i-lt  towards  Mortimer,  prevented  her 
manner  from  ever  cxprc.-oing  discontent, 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


129 


there  wore  often  times  when  her  youth  would 
rise  irresistibly  strong  within  her,  and  the 
want  of  her  existence  become  an  actual  pain. 
The  indistinct  yearning  she  had  experienced 
at  Kersaint,  before  she  ever  knew  Philip, 
returned  now  with  tenfold  strength  ;  for  this 
vague  desire  was  no  longer  without  an  object. 
Marguerite,  in  the  interval,  had  loved  with 
all  the  strength  of  a  deep  and  fervent  nature  : 
and  her  heart  actually  sank,  as  she  looked 
forward  to  years  and  years — her  whole  life, 
in  fact — still  spent  in  the  same  way  as  now. 
No  other  love  than  what  she  felt  for  her 
husband,  no  higher  object  than  her  own 
amusement. 

Her  husband's  acquaintance  were,  for  the 
most  part,  men  of  about  his  own  standing ; 
he  had  never  cared  much  for  women1s  so- 
ciety, and  knew  little  of  their  wives  and 
daughters ;  and  the  few  families  they  did  vis- 
it were  none  of  them  congenial  to  Marguer- 
ite. Once  or  twice  a  month  he  dined  out : 
occasionally  they  had  a  dinner  party  of  old 
men  at  home.  The  conversation,  on  these 
occasions,  as  may  be  conceived,  was  not  of  a 
nature  likely  to  afford  her  much  interest. 
The  presence  of  Georgy  de  Burgh  was  quite 
a  relief  to  her  at  these  festivals,  especially 
when  Mrs.  Danby  was  not  able,  from  her 
delicate  health,  to  attend;  and  Marguerite 
was  only  too  happy  to  lend  her  her  carriage 
or  riding-horse,  or  to  send  her  bouquets  of 
hot-house  flowers  ;  she  was  quite  glad  when 
these  things  could  give  any  one  else  more 
pleasure  than  they  did  herself,  and  had  long 
forgiven  the  petty  slights  which  Georgy  had 
shown  her  in  her  cousin's  house. 

"Are  you  very  happy,  dear?  "  inquired 
Miss  de  Burgh,  as  they  sat  on  the  sofa,  after 
one  of  Mortimer's  dinner-parties,  and  while 
the  men  were  still  in  the  dining-room  ;  "you 
look  so  pale  to-day." 

.  "  Happy  !  "  Marguerite  started  and  color- 
ed. "  Oh.  yes  !  He  is  very  kind  to  me  ;  I 
have  everything  I  wish." 

"  I  see — under  similar  circumstances,  I 
should  be  happy.  You  think  too  much  of 
Philip  Earnscliffe,  dear." 

"  Georgy  ! — indeed  ! " 

"  No,  Marguerite  ;  don't  deny,  nor  wince, 
as  if  I  had  done,  you  some  dreadful  injury. 
I  do  not  blame  you  in  the  least ;  still  it  is  a 
pity  that  you  should  do  so.  You  are  quite 
losing  your  fine  color,  and  look  years  older 
already."  . 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  makes  the  differ- 
ence seem  less  between  Mr.  Mortimer  and 
myself." 

"Oli,  oh,  Marguerite!  /cannot  believe 
that  you  wish  to  pass  for  a  '  Goody  Two- 
shoes  ;  '  but  every  one  else  will,  if  yon  talk 
in  that  way.  Fancy  a  woman  of  your  age 
liking  to  look  old  !  'The  fact  is,  you  are  too 
much  moped — no  going  out,  no  society  (for 
these  fusty  old  dinners  are  worse  than  noth- 
ing). Why  in  the  world  don't  you  go  to  the 
opera,  like  other  people  ?  " 
9 


"  Well,  I  have  thought  of  it;  but  Mr. 
Mortimer  comes  home  tired,  and  we  dine  so 
late — and,  besides,  I  do  not  think  he  cares 
much  for  music — I  mean,  not  as  I  do." 

"  But  these  are  no  reasons  why  you  should 
not  go.  So  fond  of  music  as  you  are,  it  is 
absolute  cruelty  that  you  never  have  any  op- 
portunity of  hearing  it." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much  indeed"  said 
Marguerite,  her  eyes  glistening.  "  How 
kind  of  you  to  think  of  it  for  me !  " 

"  Nothing  about  my  own  place  in  your 
box,"  thought  Georgy.  Then  aloud — 
"  Well,  dear,  I  really  do  not  like  to  see  you 
leading  such  a  lonely  life.  I  shall  speak  to 
Mr.  Mortimer  about  it  this  very  evening." 

"Oh,  I  will  ask  him,  thank  you.  He 
would  prefer  it  from  me.  I  need  only  go  on 
those  evenings  when  he  dines  out,  so  he  will 
not  miss  me.  And  would  you  come  with  me 
the  first  time  please  ?  I  have  never  been  to 
a  theatre  in  my  life  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,"  Georgy  cried,  de- 
lighted at  the  success  of  her  manoeuvre. 
"  There  is  to  be  '  Lucia1  to-morrow,  and  it 
will  be  a  benefit  night  in  addition.  Make 
your  husband  take  us  places  for  it,  even  if 
he  cannot  decide  about  a  box." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  he  will  get  a  box  the 
very  day  I  ask  for  it,"  returned  Marguerite, 
simply.  "  It  gives  him  such  pleasure  if  I 
express  a  wish  for  anything."  Her  face  was 
still  lit  up  with  the  child-like  pleasure  the 
thoughts  of  the  opera  'had  awakened,  when 
some  of  the  men  entered.  Mortimer  was 
one  of  the  first.  He  came  to  his  wife  in  a 
second,  looking,  with  his  red  face  and  portly 
figure,  as  unlike  her  husband  as  possible. 

"  How  merry  you  seem.  Marguerite, 
Miss  de  Burgh,  you  must  come  and  see  us. 
oftener.  You  brighten  up  my  poor  lonehr 
wife." 

"  Ah,  we  are  conspiring,"  said  Marguer-- 
ite,  with  her  sweet  smile.  "  Perhaps  you 
will  not  be  so  well  pleased  when  you  hear 
what  we  are  speaking  about." 

"  Try  me.  I  am  not  often  offended  with, 
you." 

"Well,  T  am  so  very  fond  of  music,  ami 
— Georgy  has  been  saying  tha-t  the  opera 
would  be  such  a  treat  to  n>e  sometimes,  if 
you  thought  you  would  not  mind  taking  & 
box  for  me." 

Mortimer  looked  delighted.  Although  h® 
was  always  trying  to  please  her,  Marguerite, 
would  seldom  ask  him  lor  anything. 

"  Come  here,  Danby !  *  he  cried  to  his 
friend,  who  had  just  entered,  "  and  see  how 
we  are  all  changing.  Yoitr  demure  little 
ward  has  just  asked  me-  to  get  her  a  box  at 
the  opera !  " 

"Ah!  Georgy  must  have  had  a  hand  in 
that,  I  suspect,"  said  Danby.  "  Madgey 
never  heard  of  operas  at  Kersaint.  Did 
you,  Mrs.  Mortimer?  " 

"  Never — that  is — "  her  perfect  truthful- 
ness compelling  her  to  speak.  "  Cousin,  I 


130 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


did   hear   of  them   once,"    and   Marguerite 
blushed  deeply. 

"  Well,  there  was  no  great  harm  if  you 
did,  child/'  said  her  husband.  "  What  "are 
you  looking  so  red  for  ?  •' 

"  Who  used  to  talk  of  operas  at  Ker- 
saint?"  went  on  Danby;  "Philip  Earns- 
cliffe,  I  suppose." 

Oh,  what  would  Marguerite  have  given 
to  master  herself  better  !  When  Earnscliffe's 
name  was  mentioned,  or  even  any  other  sub- 
ject that  remotely  bore  upon  him,  the  blood 
would  always  rise  crimson  to  her  very  tem- 
ples, and  her  hands  turn  cold  in  a  second. 
Was  she  never  to  overcome  her  old  girlish 
feelings,  now  that  she  was  another  man's 
wife  ? 

•*  Come  here,  Marguerite,"  cried  Georgy, 
who  was  watching  her  narrowly,  "  1  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  your  new  songs,  and  to 
know  if  you  can  lend  me  some  waltzes  ?  " 

Marguerite  felt  only  too  thankful  for  the 
interruption,  and  going  quickly  to  Miss  de 
Burgh's  side,  leant  down  over  a  heap  of  new 
music  until  her  long  hair  almost  covered  her 
burning  face. 

"Take  any  you  like,  Georgy,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  have  not  even  tried  them 
over  yet.  Mr.  Mortimer  brings  me  some- 
thing new  every  day." 

"Marguerite,"  interrupted  the  other,  in  a 
whisper,  "you  are  very  demure,  and  very 
excellent;  out  if  I  were  your  husband,  I 
would  not  wish  Philip  Earnscliffe  to  appear 
in  London." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

WHEN  her  toilette  was  complete  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  Marguerite  surveyed  herself 
•with  more  pleasure  than  she  had  felt  in  her 
own  appearance  since  her  marriage;  and, 
devoid  of  vanity  though  she  was,  she  could 
not  be  insensible  of  her  own  extraordinary 
beauty.  Her  luxuriant  hair  was  partly 
gathered  round  her  head,  partly  fell  upon 
her  neck,  in  a  style  peculiar  to  herself,  and  a 
magnificent  set  of  pearl  ornaments — a  present 
from  her  husband  that  day — well  became  her 
youth,  and  fair,  satin-like  skin.  In  her 
boMMii  was  a  bouquet  of  rare  hot-house 
flowers,  all  white. 

"  Am  I,  indeed,  aw  beautiful  as  Philip 
said?  "  she  thought,  when  her  maid  had  left, 
ami  she  was  waiting  (or  the  :innomieeineiil  of 
the  carriage.  "  What  would  he  think  of  me 
now  ?  " 

She  started,  and  turned  from  the  glass,  as 
her  husband's   sk-p  was  heard   entering  her 
ng-room. 

"  Wei!,  Mad^ey,  ehild,  how  do  you  look 
in  ;  -.IIP  finrry!  Not  so  had  upon  my 

word !  "     lie  tlrew  her  to  him,  and  kibscd  her 


forehead.  "You  seem  very  happy,  little 
woman,  at  going  out  alone  for  the  first 
time." 

•'  Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer!  T  should  be  more 
glad  if  you  were  coming  too." 

"  Quite  sure,  Marguerite?  " 

"  Quite  ;  I  mean  " — with  her  usual  sincer- 
ity— "  if  it  were  anything  but  to  the  opera. 
But,  perhaps  I  shall  enjoy  that  more  alone, 
than  if  you  were  there,  and  T  knew  you 
were  wearied  to  death  with  the  music." 

Mortimer  looked  the  least  in  the  world  dis- 
appointed, then  he  replied,  kindly,  "  Mar- 
guerite, you  are  a  good  child  to  speak  the 
exact  truth.  It  is  not  likely  that  what  pleas- 
es you  should  me.  See  the  difference  be- 
tween us  !  "  He  pointed  to  a  cheval-glass, 
where  the  two  figures  stood  reflected. 
"  What  do  we  look  like,  Madgey  ?  " 

"  Father  and  daughter,  sir :  I  have  always 
said  so.  And  no  father,"  she  added,  gent- 
ly, "  could  ever  have  been  kinder  to  a  child 
than  YOU  are  to  me,  or  have  more  merited 


her  gratitude." 

"Ah,  Marguerite!  if  I  was  a  younger 
man  you  would  feel  very  differently.  Grati- 
tude never  enters  into  love,  I  am  told.  How- 
ever, you  know  nothing  about  that" — she 
turned  her  face  quite  away — "and,  perhaps, 
you  are  as  happy  as  many  who  make  love 
marriages.  At  all  events,  what  has  never 
been  felt  cannot  be  missed  !  " 

•*  I  have  every  reason  to  be  happy,"  said 
Marguerite  in  a  low  voice  ;  "I  have  no  wish 
ungratified  since  I  have  been  your  wife." 

"  Well,  enjoy  yourself  as  much  as  you  can 
to-night.  I  hope  the  opera  will  be  a  now 
source  of  pleasure  to  you  ;  perhaps  you  have 
been  too  much  alone  hitherto." 

Georgy  was  ready  dressed  when  the  car- 
riage stopped  in  Tavi stock  Street,  and  ap- 
peared in  high  spirits  when  she  jumped  in. 

"  Marguerite,  how  exquisite  !  I  never  saw 


Margin 
those  pearls  before.' 


dav 


Mr.    Mortimer  gave   them    to   me  to- 


And  that  darling  little  cloak?" 

"  Another  present." 

"  And  your  lorgnette,  and  your  bouquet; 
oh,  and  mine!"  as  Marguerite  gave  her  ono 
containing  all  the  rarest  flowers  of  the  sea- 
son, and  Miss  (icorgy  held  it  up  to  the  light. 
People  say  riches  cannot  make  happiness  !  I 
ant  sure  they  could  make  mine!  I ^ hope  wo 
shall  l>e  in  a  good  place!  You  will  create 
quite  a  f'umre  with  your  style — and — your 
newness!  Perhaps  you  will  condescend  to 
say  what  you  think  of  me." 

(ieor;_rv  was  really  looking  very  handsome 
in  a  pink  satin  dress,  unusually  t/f<>fiti,  and 
a  profusion  of  diamonds  in  her  hair.  Her 
hi^h  color,  jetty  curls,  and  cool,  undaunted 
air,  formed  an  admirable  foil  to  the  delicate 
hues  of  Marguerite1!  complexion,  and  her 
youthful,  girlish  manner;  ami  when  they  en- 
tered the  i><>\,  whieh  was  one  of  the  best  and 
most  conspicuous  in  the  house,  they  did,  to 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


131 


Georgy's  intense  delight,  create  quite  a  sen- 
sation. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "—  "  What  is  she  ?  "•  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  moment  Marguerite 
appeared,  and  always  with  the  same  reply. 
No  one  knew.  The  overture  was  nearly 
over,  but  Marguerite's  attention  was  instant- 
ly riveted  to  the  music  ;  and,  listening  to 
Grisi  and  Mario,  such  a  new  world  of  de- 
light, such  undreamed-of  enjoyment  opened 
upon  her,  as  would  have  paralysed  all  power 
of  expression,  had  she  attempted  to  give  ut- 
terance to  her  feelings.  Her  eyes  glistened 
and  the  color  went  and  came  in  her  cheek, 
as  she  leant  forward,  her  hands  clasped  to- 
gether over  the  front  of  the  box,  in  an  atti- 
tude of  the  most  unconscious  attention, 
while  the  eyes  of  half  the  men  in  London 
were  fixed  upon  her. 

'"At  length!"  exclaimed  Georgy,  as  the 
first  act  ended.  "  I  have  spoken  to  you  in 
vain  about  eight  times.  Now,  will  you  kind- 
ly be  a  little  more  like  other  people  ?  Per- 
fect though  hands  may  be,  it  is  not  usual  to 
clasp  them  together  at  a  theatre,  as  though 
you  were  praying.  And  so  very  unconscious 
of  all  the  men  who  are  staring  at  you  !  " 

"Hands  —  praying!"  echoed  Marguerite, 
dreamily.  "  Oh!  Qeorgy,  have  I  done  any- 


thin 


mproper 


" 


"  Not  at  all,  dear!  You  have  succeeded, 
however,  in  being  singular;  and,  as  every 
lorgnette  in  the  pit  appears  to  be  upturned 
to  your  face,  you  are  probably  satisfied." 

Unwilling  though  she  might  have  been  to 
offend  a  connection  who  would  take  her  to 
the  opera,  and  ask  her  to  dinner,  this  young 
creature's  jealousy  could  never  repress  itself 
at  Mrs.  Mortimers  superior  beauty  ;  and 
Marguerite,  feeling  by  the  tone  that  she 
meant  to  be  spiteful,  colored  deeply  as  she 
leant  back  in  her  chair.  The  flush  remained 
on  her  cheeks,  making  her  tenfold  lovelier, 
and  people  looked  at  her  more  that  ever. 

"  How  every  one  looks  at  me,  Georgy  !  " 
she  whispered.  "  It  is  not  very  polite  of  them 
to  do  so,  even  if  they  see  how  unused  I  am 
to  these  places  !  Have  I  done  anything  very 
strange  ?  " 

*'  For  pity's  sake,  remember  there  is  no 
one  to  hear,  and  do  not  be  so  simple  with 
me,"  replied  her  companion,  harshly.  "  Ac- 
cept your  r61e  of  new  beauty,  and  play  it 
through.  The  men  will  not  look  at  you  half 
so  much  when  you  are  known,  or  some  new 
face  has  arisen  to  eclipse  yours." 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  Marguerite,  quiet- 
ly ;  and  then  (seeing  that  Georgy  was  not 
in  the  sweetest  of  tempers  at  the  small  at- 
tention her  own  satin  and  diamonds  excited) 
she  remained  silently  gazing  about  the  house, 
whose  lights,  and  tiers  of  brilliant  women, 
seemed  like  the  realisation  of  one  of  her 
childhood's  fairy  tales. 

In  the  next  box  to  their  own  was  one  in- 
dividual whose  eyes  scarcely  for  a  second  had 
quitted  Marguerite's  face  ;  but  it  was  not  un- 


til the  middle  of  the  performance  that  her. 
own  glance  carelessly  rested  upon  him.  For 
an  instant  her  heart  leaped  wildly — she 
thought  it  was  EarnsclifFe  !  The  delusion  was 
momentary :  it  was  one  of  those  accidental 
likenesses  more  of  contour  and  general  style, 
than  of  feature,  or  even  expression;  still,  it 
was  sufficiently  strong  to  arouse  a  thousand 
old  feelings  in  Marguerite;  and,  even  while 
Mario  was  singing,  to  make  her  glance  timid- 
ly at  the  stranger's  face. 

"  Do  you  know  him — do  you  know  him  ?  w 
whispered  Miss  de  Burgh.  "  You  seem  to 
be  looking  at  him  a  great  deal." 

"I — oh!  I  know  no  one;  but  I  should 
like  to  know  his  name." 

Georgy  knew :  she  knew  everything. 
"  The  Marquis  de  St.  Leon — a  young  man. 
of  very  high  birth,  and  rich.  I  wonder 
whether  he  remembers  me  !  I  danced  in  the 
same  quadrille  with  him  one  evening,  three 
or  four  years  ago,  at  Homberg  !  I  shall  bow 
when  he  looks  next !  " 

"  Please  do  not  bow,  Georgy,"  returned 
Marguerite,  quickly. 

"  Why  not,  Mrs.  Mortimer?  May  not 
one  person,  out  of  all  your  admirers,  be  per- 
mitted to  look  at  me  ?  " 

Marguerite  felt  that  their  neighbor  was 
not  looking  at  Georgy ;  but  she  was  silent, 
knowing  that  in  her  present  temper,  any  op- 
position would  make  her  more  resolute,  and 
also  that  it  was  not  in  the  De  Burgh  nature  to 
let  a  living  marquis  be  unmolested,  if  there 
were  the  slightest  clue  to  acquaintanceship. 

Not  until  the  conclusion  of  the  act,  could 
Georgy  attract  the  attention  of  the  young 
Frenchman,  who  was  still  intently  watching 
Marguerite's  averted  profile,  while  he  appar- 
ently listened  to  the  music;  but  when  at 
length  the  curtain  fell,  and  Marguerite  levant 
back,  so  that  her  face  was  hidden  from  him, 
his  eye  casually  rested  on  that  of  Miss  de 
Burgh.  She  bowed,  and  smiled  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  marquis  half  rose,  and  made  a 
profound  salutation,  but  with  the  most  un- 
equivocal look  of  surprise,  for  of  course 
Georgy's  face  was  utterly  foreign  to  him ; 
and  this  circumstance,  united  to  her  general 
appearance  and  dress,  gave  him  at  once  an, 
impression  the  exact  reverse  of  favorable  of 
the  lady. 

"  Grisi  est  ravissant  ce  soir  monsieur," 
leaning  over  towards  him. 

' '  Mais  oui  madame !  "  with  a  stare  of  as- 
tonishment  at  her  coolness. 

"  I  see,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  that  you  do 
not  recognise  me." 

He  was  about  to  reply  in  a  strain  more 
complimentary  than  respectful,  when  he 
glanced  towards  Marguerite — who  felt  what 
was  going  on,  and  her  blush  of  shame — her 
innocent  young  face — made  him  retract  his 
unfavorable  opinion  of  her  companion. 

"  Mad,  probably,"  he  thought — **  utterly 
mad,  like  all  other  Englishwomen."  Then 
aloud,  "Madame,  I  must  infinitely  regret 


132 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


that  I  do  not  recall  to  myself  the  exact  cir- 
cumstances under  which  I  formerly  had  the 
honor " 

"  It  was  at  Homberg  !  "  cried  Georgy,  de- 
lighted with  her  progress.  "  We  used  to 
meet  nearly  every  evening  at  the  Kur  Saal, 
and  once,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  you  at  a  grand  ball 
given  to  the  Duchess  Stephanie !" 

The  pain  on  Marguerite's  face  was  now  be- 
coming so  evident  that  the  marquis  told  Geor- 
gy  he  remembered  her  perfectly,  and  that  his 
near  sight  must  plead  his  excuse  for  not  hav- 
ing done  so  sooner ;  and  he  was  soon  so  po- 
Ktc,  and  so  evidently  anxious  to  improve  the 
acquaintance,  that  Georgy  grew  radiant — 
not  considering  how  small  a  share  she  had  in 
the  cause  of  his  empressement . 

Tlioy  continued  talking  for  some  minutes, 
and  then  Georgy  touched  Marguerite's  arm 
thinking  it  must  appear  strange  to  the  French- 
man that  her  companion  looked  so  steadily 
away  from  him. 

"  Monsieur,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to 
my  cousin,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  nee  De  Josselin 
St.  John." 

"The  marquis  slightly  started,  then  bow- 
ed very  .gravely.  "  De  Josselin  !"  he  re- 
peated. 

"  Her  mother's  name,"  Georgy  hastened 
to  explain.  "The  De  Josselins  of  Beau 
Manoir  in  Brittany — a  very  ancient  fami- 
ly.'1 

"  I  may  then  claim  relationship  as  an  in- 
troduction," he  remarked,  in  an  extremely 
different  tone  to  the  light,  easy  one  in  which 
he  had  been  chatting  with  Miss  de  Burgh. 
"  My  father  and  the  mother  of  madame, 
•were,  if  I  mistake  not,  cousins  german." 

"  And  we  are  all  related !  "  cried  Georgy, 
"how  delightful!" 

But  Marguerite  looked  at  him  very  ear- 
nestly, and  with  the  most  perfect  simplicity, 
said  : — 

"  Monsieur,  it  gives  me  real  pleasure  to 
have  met  you.  You  are  the  first  of  my 
mother's  familv  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  I  must  demand  a  thousand  pardons," 
«aid  the  marquis,  now  speaking  in  his  own 
language,  and  bending  towards  Marguerite, 
"  for  having  looked  so  often  at  your  face  this 
evening;  but  I  have  been  vainly  endeavor- 
oring  to  recollect  where  and  when  I  have 
met  you  before.  Now  the  mystery  explains 
itself.  I  am  in  possession  of  a  miniature, 
in  which  there  exists  the  most  extraordinary 
likeness  to  yourself,  and  that  miniature, 
madame,  is  the  portrait  of  your  mother, 
Lilla  de  .losselin,  taken  in  her  early  youth  !  " 

"My  mother's  portrait!"  repeated  Mar- 
guerite, eagerlv.  "  Ah,  I  possess  no  likeness 
of  her!" 

"And  is  she  no  longer  living?  Pardon 
me,  but  it  is  years  since  I  heard  the  news  of 
any  one  Ix-aring  the  name  of  DC  .losselin/1 

"  Mv  mother  died  when  I  was  born,  mon- 
•icur.  The  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 


"  Need  I  say  the  pleasure  it  would  afford 
me  to  be  allowed  to  restore  the  picture  to 
one  who  has  so  strong  a  claim  upon  it?  " 

•J  Would  you  really  give  it  me?  I  scarce- 
ly like  to  rob  you  of  such  a  treasure  !" 

"  I  prize  it,"  replied  the  young  man,, 
gravely,  "  as  having  belonged  to  my  own 
father,  who  valued  it  above  everything  on 
earth  ;  but  it  would  give  me  infinite  pleasure 
to  see  it  in  your  possession." 

"  Then  come  and  see  us  to-morrow,  and 
bring  it  with  you,  if  you  will,  indeed,  be  so 
generous.  Oh  !  this  is  unexpected  pleasure. 
How  much  I  shall  have  to  teli  Mr.  Morti- 
mer ! " 

"  Can  it  be  possible  that  she  is  mar- 
ried!"  thought  St.  Leon.  "She  has  the 
face  and  simplicity  of  a  child.  And  what  a 
face ! " 

His  manner  soon  displayed  such  intense 
admiration,  that  Miss  Georgy,  although  well 
content  that  she  could  claim  any  connection 
with  a  marquis,  felt  by  no  means  pleased  at 
the  turn  things  were  taking,  and  the  earnest 
conversation  in  which  she  bore  no  part. 

"You  are  forgetting  the  beloved  music,  it 
appears,"  she  whispered  maliciously. 

Marguerite  felt  her  meaning,  and  turned 
away  towards  the  stage ;  but  her  heart  was 
full  at  the  unexpected  meeting  with  one  of  her 
own  race  and  nation,  and  for  a  moment  she 
could  hardly  repress  tears  at  Georgy's  un- 
kindness — for  she  always  could  discern  by 
the  tone  one  of  Miss  de  Burgh's  little  im- 
plied sarcasms.  Soon,  however,  in  the  ab- 
sorbing interest  of  the  last  scene  in  that 
touching  opera,  into  which  Grisi's  genius 
throws  so  deep  a  pathos,  she  forgot  even  her 
new  cousin ;  and  when  the  last  notes  of 
"Lucia "died  away,  Marguerite  was  trem- 
bling and  breathless  with  excitement. 

"  Is  it  over?"  she  said,  turning  nervously 
round.  She  was  looking  so  strange  that 
Georgy  was  startled,  and  exclaimed,  "  Heav- 
ens! Marguerite,  what  ails  you? — are  you 
going  to  faint?"  And  the  marquis,  who 
had  already  risen  to  depart,  bent  towards 
them  and  inquired  anxiously  "if  madamo 
was  ill  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  returned  Marguerite,  trying  to 
smile;  "  I  am  only  rather  nervous.  It  is 
vcrv  foolish,  I  know;  but  this  is  the  first 


opera  I  ever  saw." 
••  You  sillv  child  !  " 


silly  child!"  said  Georgy.  "  Did 
vou  think  Grisi  was  really  dead?" 

"  If  I  might  presume  to  offer  my  es- 
cort? "  St  Leon  hesitated. 

44  We  shall  lie  really  grateful,11  ictiirncd 
(Jeorury,  promptly  ;  M  for,  .strange  to  say,  we 
are  alone  this  evening." 

He  joined  them  at  the  door  of  their  box  ; 
and  tliey  were  soon  endeavoring  to  make, 
their  way  through  the  crowded  lobby. 

"  Lean  on  me,  madame,  I  entreat,"  ho 
he  said  to  Margucrile.  "  You  look  terribly 
overcome." 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  whispered;  "  only  a 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


133 


passing  faintness.  I  am  unused  to  these 
great  crowds,  and  shall  be  better  the  moment 
I  breathe  the  air." 

Just  then  one  of  Georgy's  former  friends 
happened  to  pass  them  on  his  way  out ;  a 
young  lordling  it  was  that  she  had  once  pick- 
ed up  in  Switzerland,  when  he  was  still  in 
jackets,  and  with  whom  she  had  contrived  at 
intervals  to  keep  up  a  bowing  acquaintance 
ever  since.  Seeing  her  with  the  new  beau- 
ty, and  accompanied  by  so  well  known  a  man 
as  St.  Leon,  he  condescended  to  be  civil, 
and  thev  shook  hands — the  lady  very  warm- 

iy- 

"What  an  age  since  I  have  seen  you, 
Miss  de  Burgh !  Will  you  take  my  arm  ? 
it's  too  crowded  for  three.  Good  evening, 
marquis.  Deuced  hot,  aint  it?  " 

St.  Leon  answered  with  a  stately  bow.  He 
was,  however,  overjoyed  to  get  rid  of  Miss 
de  Burgh,  and  be  able  to  devote  all  his  at- 
tention to  his  lovely  companion. 

When  they  reached  the  vestibule,  Georgy 
and  her  young  friend  were  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

"  Tfiey  are  probably  in  advance,"  said  St. 
Leon.  "Let  me  conduct  you  outside  for  a 
few  moments  ;  the  air  will  refresh  you.  In- 
deed, unless  you  wait  very  long,  you  will 
probably  be  obliged  to  walk  some  distance 
to  your  carriage,  owing  to  the  crush  to- 
night." 

The  cold  night  air  revived  Marguerite  in- 
stantly. "I  am  better  now,"  she  said, 
glancing  up  at  her  cousin.  His  figure  looked 
so  like  EarnsclifiVs,  seen  in  that  uncertain 
light,  that  involuntarily  her  hand  pressed 
upon  his  arm — then  trembled  a  little. 

"  That  is  right,"  he  answered.  "  Let  us 
walk  on,  madame,  somewhat  apart  from  the 
crowd.  The  air  is  the  best  thing  for  you 
now,  and  it  will  give  your  friend  time  to 
join  you  ;  they  are  probably  detained  by  the 
crowd." 

Miss  de  Burgh  was  not  likely  to  hurry 
when  resting  on  the  arm  of  a  lord ;  and  it 
was  fully  twenty  minutes  before  they  all  met. 
During  this  time  the  marquis  had  learnt  the 
name  of  Marguerite's  husband,  and  their 
address,  and  had  promised  to  bring  the 
miniature  the  following  day,  *'  if  madame 
would  do  him  the  real  favor  of  accepting  it."' 
And  her  glistening  eyes,  as  she  turned  to 
thank  him.  were  sufficient  reply.  After  Miss 
de  Burgh  had  joined  them,  they  had  still  to 
walk  to  the  carriage  at  some  little  distance. 
And  all  this  time  the  young  Frenchman  was 
thinking  that  he  had  never,  in  all  his  experi- 
ence of  beauty,  met  with  any  woman  to 
compare  to  his  English  cousin,  and  compla- 
cently exulting  at  her  very  amiable  reception 
of  himself;  while  Marguerite's  quiet  reflec- 
tion was,  "  He  is  like  Philip— certainly  like 
him,  but  not  a  hundredth  part  so  handsome 
or  so  noble-looking ;  all  the  fine  intellect  is 
wanting,  and  the  resemblance  half  pains  me 
from  its  incompleteness." 


When  they  were  on  their  way  home,  Miss 
Georgy  displayed  a  great  accession  of 
spirits. 

"  What  a  delightful  evening — a  lord  and 
a  foreign  marquis  !  I  saw  those  odious  Miss 
Malcolms  looking  at  me  as  we  came  to  the 
carriage.  They  were  stalking  by  with  their 
mother,  like  three  great  spectres  in  the  moon- 
light, and  no  vestige  of  a  man  wkh  them  ! 

Lord was  so  attentive,  and  he  is  coming 

to  call.  I  heard  you  asking  the  marquis. 
Do  you  admire  him,  Mrs.  Mortimer?  " 

"  Yes — or  rather  there  is  something  about 
him  which  attracts  me." 

"  Indeed  !     Well,  you  are  candid." 

"A  nameless  something.  I  cannot  ex- 
plain what  it  is,  Georgy." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself;  I  perfectly  un- 
derstand. Heigh  ho !  here  we  are  at  my 
hideous  old  home.  Thank  you  for  my  pleas- 
ant evening,  Marguerite,  and  take  me  again 
as  soon  as  you  like." 

And  Miss  Georgy,  yawning  extensively, 
ran  up  the  paternal  door-steps,  leaving  Mar- 
guerite to  drive  home  in  the  moonlight  with 
the  sweet  notes  of  the  "  Lucia"  still  vibrat- 
ing through  her  brain  ;  and  the  voice,  not  of 
St.  Leon,  but  of  Philip,  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

FROM  that  evening  a  new  life  seemed  to 
have  opened  for  Marguerite.  Delighted  that, 
at  length,  something  could  be  found  affording 
her  real  pleasure,  Mortimer  insisted  upon  her 
frequently  going  to  the  opera ;  and  it  was  a 
source  to  Marguerite  of  such  genuine,  un- 
mixed enjoyment,  that  soon  these  two,  and 
often  three  evenings  in  the  week,  were  look- 
ed upon  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  anticipat- 
ed each  time  with  all  the  zest  of  a  child. 

She  loved  music  passionately ;  she  went 
for  the  music,  and  listened  to  it  as  few  Eng- 
lish people  can  listen — came  home  to  dream 
of  it,  and  sing  what  she  heard  to  her  own 
piano,  and  for  herself.  Her  voice  had  great- 
ly improved  ;  and  after  the  constant  instruc- 
tion, for  two  years,  of  the  best  masters  in 
London,  Marguerite  Nnow  sang  as  not  many 
in  private  life  are  ever  heard  to  sing.  She 
often,  thought  of  Philip's  prediction  about 
her  voice,  and  wondered,  with  a  half-sigh, 
what  he  would  think  of  her  now  that  she  had 
so  much  improved. 

Of  Philip  himself  she  never  heard.  One 
long  letter  he -had  written  her  from  the  Ty- 
rol, two  or  three  months  after  they  parted — 
a  letter  that  had  been  read  and  re-read  until 
known  by  heart,  and  then  stored  away  with 
her  other  most  precious  relics — but  after  this 
she  heard  no  more.  Still,  however,  she 
thought  of  him — still  was  his  name  never 
forgotten  in  her  prayers — still  his  books  were 


134 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


treasured — and  all  this  with  the  most  entire 
unconsciousness  of  wrong.  But,  perhaps, 
that  which  kept  Philip's  image  most  strongly 
alive  was  the  likeness  that  she  traced  to  him 
in  her  cousin. 

The  young  marquis  called  on  the  follow- 
ing day  after  their  first  meeting,' with  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  St.  John,  and  Marguerite 
had  received  him  with  all  the  unreserved 
cordiality  of  a  relation,  and  made  him  stop 
to  be  introduced  to  Mortimer,  and  dine  with 
them.  From  that  day  he  became  intimate  at 
the  house.  Although  his  society  possessed 
no  charm  for  Marguerite,  she  "liked  him. 
He  was  refined,  well-educated,  superior  to 
'every  one  else  around  her,  and  had  all  those 
minute  graces  of  conversation  and  manner  in 
which  a  well-bred  Frenchman  excels.  But 
he  was  artificial,  and  to  Marguerite  this  de- 
prived him  of  all  the  interest  he  might  other- 
wise have  inspired.  Everything  that  in 
Earnscliffe  was  natural,  St.  Leon  seemed  to 
have  learnt.  Although,  he  was  never  vapid 
— seldom  actually  common-place — he  rarely 
said  anything  forcible  or  striking. 

"I  shall  be  jealous  of  your  handsome 
French  cousin,  little  wife,'1  said  Mortimer, 
one  evening.  Marguerite  accompanied  by 
Georgy  and  St.  Leon,  had  been  spending  a 
long  morning  at  the  Exhibition. 

"  Jealous,  sir ! — surely  you  cannot  mean 
it.  Do  you  wish  to  be  like  Gaston  ?  " 

"  Not  that  kind  of  jealousy,  my  dear. 
Jealous ! — jealous  of  his  being  your  com- 
panion so  often." 

Marguerite  laughed.  "  Don't  you  think 
Georgy  de  Burgh  would  like  to  marry  him  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  think  Georgy  would  marry  any  one." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  sometimes  think  she 
really  likes  Gaston." 

"And  do  not  you,  Maggy?"  looking 
rather  earnestly  in  her  face. 

"Yes — I  like  him — very  much,  at  times; 
and  then,  he  is  my  only  relation,  except  my 
cousin  Danby.  But  he  seldom  really  inter- 
ests me.  This  morning,  among  the  pictures, 
even,  I  forgot  so  often  what  he  was  talking 
about.  When  we  were  looking  at  that  ex- 

?uisite  thing,  '  The  Awakened   Conscience,1 
had  just  read  all  tin*  story   of  the  girl's  life 
in  her  suddenly  anguished  fare,  and,  turning 
t ••  <  i  iston,  I  began  telling  him  it;  when  he 
interrupted  me,  and  said,  'the  finish  on  the 

rarpet  was  painted  a  /•///•//•  /'  It  was  so  like 
liim.  He  cannot  appreciate  the  wild-flowers 
in  my  wilderness  half  as  much  as  the  rare 
exotics  in  your  hot-hou>es,  sir." 

"  Well,'  I  don't  Maine  him  there,"  said 
Mortimer,  complacently.  "Our  flowers  at 
Wimbledon  are  the  finest  of  any  near  Lon- 
don (uithout  doubt  the  young  man  never 
faw  anything  like  them  in  his  own  country, 
for  all  he's  a  man|uis)  :  and  your  wilderness, 
{is  you  call  it.  M.i'_r'_r>  .  i>  :i  horrid  damp  hole. 
However,  if  !]«•  dors  nut  like  your  weeds,  I 
am  Mire  yon  .seem  to  like  the  same  books  ; 


or  I  find  you  reading  together,  or  talking 
of  what  you  have  just  read,  when  I  come  in.11 

"  Yes,"  said  Marguerite,  smiling,  "  but 
we  never  agree  in  our  criticism.  Gaston  al- 
ways admires  the  very  parts  that  I  pass  over, 
and  detests  anything  like  sentiment,  which, 
you  know,  I  do  like." 

"Poor  Maggy!  you  like  what  you  don't 
understand.  But  I  am  glad  to  hear  I  need 
not  be  jealous." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer!  what  is  cousin  Gas- 
ton  to  me  ?  "  And  the  perfect  truth  in  her 
face  must  have  dispelled  it,  if  a  slight  shade 
of  jealousy  had  really  crossed  his  mind. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him,  though,"  Mar- 
guerite went  on,  "to  persuade  this  grand 
countess  to  call  and  invite  me  to  her  house ; 
but  I  don't  care  much  about  going.  I  am 
not  shy ;  still  I  tremble  a  little  at  appearing 
among  hundreds  of  strangers,  and  knowing 
no  one  but  Gaston.  1  wish  you  would  go, 
Mr.  Mortimer ;  it  is  not  too  late  for  you  to 
change  your  mind." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  not  suited  for  the  Coun- 
tess of  E 's  parties.  With  your  beauty 

and  manners,  you  are  fit  company  for  the 
Queen;  but  it  "would  spoil  the  effect  for  me 
to  be  shown  as  your  husband.  Besides  this, 
I'm  not  fond  of  music,  and  ten  to  one  but  I 
should  fall  asleep  when  some  of  the  grand 
singers  are  in  the  middle  of  their  bravuras, 
or  else  clap  my  hands  when  I  ought  to  be 
silent.  No,  child;  go  and  enjoy  yourself. 
I  shall  be  quite  content  with  your  descrip- 
tion to-morrow  morning.  It  is  time  for  you 
to  dress,  Marguerite.  Go  and  see  how 
grand  you  can  make  yourself." 

"  I  do  not  care  about  it,"  she  replied, 
slowly  preparing  to  leave  the  room.  "  I 
would  much  rather  be  going  to  the  opera." 

"  But  /  care  for  it,"  said  the  husband. 
"  With  your  own  appearance,  and  my  mo- 
ney, you  ought  to  be  in  the  best  society  in 
England ! " 

From  the  first  moment  he  knew  her,  St. 
Leon  had  longed  to  see  his  lovely  young 
cousin  in  the  same  world  as  that  in  which  he 
himself  moved.  "\Vith  Mortimer's  great 
wealth,  the  fact  of  his  being  on  '<  Miange  was 
a  misdemeanor  it  was  just  possible  lor  the 
English  aristocracy  to  forgive ;  and,  for 
some  months  past,  he  had  been  thinking 
over  evcrv  possible  plan  for  obtaining  an 
introduction  for  Marguerite  to  the  house  of 
some  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  whose  mystic, 
stamp  would  afterwards  enable  her  to  puss 
current  among  the  rnnt'i-i-nt'  of  London  e\- 
clusivism.  At  length  lie  had  been  partially 

successful.  The  ('ountess  of  K ,  at 

whose  house  he  had  long  been  intimat".  was 
about  to  give  the  largest  musical  entertain- 
ment that  had  been  at'empted  during  tho 
season;  and  at  this  entertainment  St.  Leon 
determined  Marguerite  should  be. 

"  Your  party  \\ill  I.e  charming."  he  said 
to  theeniintess.'as  he  Ml  next  her  at  a  dinner 
party,  the  day  after  the  cards  were  issued. 


PHILIP  EAIttSCLIFFE. 


135 


"All  parties  at  H House  must  be  so. 

But  as  yet  your  invitations  have  not  included 
the  best  amateur  voice  in  London." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  thought  I  had  asked 
every  one." 

"But  this  is  «  no  one.'" 

**  Ah  !  The  fact  is,  marquis,  I  have  often* 
attempted  those  sort  of  people  at  my  large 
musical  parties  ;  but  they  are  invariably  fail- 
ures " 

"  But  the  lady  I  alluded  to  is  '  no  one  '  in 
the  language  of  London  life ;  but  I  have  the 
honor  of  being  her  very  near  relative,"  re- 
marked St.  Leon,  a  little  stiffly. 

"Oh,  a  foreigner!  But,  do  you  know, 
my  dear  friend,  that  that  makes  'all  the  dif- 
ference ?  A  foreigner  may  be  of  the  highest 
rank,  yet  not  have  chanced  to  bring  intro- 
ductions to  England.  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  charming 
relation." 

The  countess  had  three  exceedingly  plain 
daughters,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  being 
gracious  to  young  men  of  good  property. 

"  My  cousin  is,  however,  married  to  an 
Englishman,"  St.  Leon  pursued,  demurely ; 
*'  Mr.  Mortimer,  a  very  rich  stockbroker." 

"  Heavens,  what  have  I  got  into  !  "thought 
the  lady.  "  It  will  be  such  a  crush,"  she 
mentally  added,  "  that  perhaps  these  dread- 
ful people  will  not  be  seen,  or  pass  for  pro- 
fessionals." Then  aloud,  *'  You  must  tell 
me  Mrs.  Mortimer's  address,  or  write  it  down 
for  me.  My  poor  head  is  so  overladen  with 
names  of  people  I  care  nothing  about,  I  may 
forget  those  whom  I  should  like  to  know." 

But  St.  Leon  did  not  allow  her  memory 
to  fail  in  this  instance ;  and  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  to  Marguerite's  surprise,  the 

card  ot  the  Countess  of  E was  left  in 

Portland  Place,  accompanied  by  an  invitation 
to  H House,  for  the  15th  of  the  follow- 
ing month. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Gaston?  "  she 
cried,  when  he  paid  his  next  visit.  "I  am 
sure  you  know  something  about  it." 

"  It  means  this  :— The  Countess  of  E 

is  one  of  the  leaders  of  your  London  society, 
and  has  so  constantly  heard  me  speak  of  my 
accomplished  cousin,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  that  at 
length  she  has  ventured  to  call  and  ask  you 
to  her  house :  when  she  sees  you,  .she  will 
find  how  great  a  gainer  she  is  by  the  intro- 
duction." 

"  Fi  done!  You  have  so  often  promised 
to  pay  me  no  compliments.  Am  I  really  to 
go,  Gaston? — do  you  think  Mr.  Mortimer 
would  like  it?" 

"Mr.  Mortimer  ! — toujours  Mr.  Mortimer  ! 
can  you  never  pronounce  for  yourself  what 
you  would  like,  rna  cousine  ?  " 

4*  Well,  I  think  I  wish  to  go;  but  he  will 
decide  best — he  is  so  sensible  !  " 

And  Mortimer,  who  soon  afterwards  came 
in  to  luncheon,  gave  his  opinion,  with  very 
little  hesitation,  in  the  affirmative.  Mar- 
guerite thought  St.  Leon's  account  quite  sim- 


ple about  Lady  E 'g  wish  to  know  her ; 

but  her  husband  was  more  flattered  and 
pleased  at  the  unexpected  grandeur  than  ho 
cared  to  acknowledge.  To  do  him  justice, 
the  feeling  of  gratification  was  for  her,  not 
himself;  and  he  hastened  that  very  after- 
noon to  order  her  new  diamonds  and  a  new 
dress,  in  his  desire  that  her  first  appearance 
should  be  a  brilliant  one. 

From  the  beginning  Mortimer  very  sensibly 
declined  the  invitation  for  himself,  and  said 
his  pleasure  would  be  in  Marguerite's  enjoy- 
ment. But,  when  in  her  sheen  of  white  bro- 
caded silk  and  diamonds — and,  more  than, 
this,  in  her  glorious  bloom  of  youth — she  en- 
tered the  dining-room  for  his  approval  on 
the  evening  of  the  concert,  the  natural 
thought  crossed  him  of  the  admiration  and 
flattery  to  which  she  would  be  exposed,  and 
the  charm  this  new  life  must  soon  possess  for 
one  so  young  as  his  wife ;  and  something 
painful  was  in  the  thought. 

"  Marguerite,  you  are  indeed  magnificent  I 
Dress  and  diamonds  can  add  even  to  the  per- 
fection of  your  face.  We  grow  more  like 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  every  day  ! " 

"  Mr.  Mortimer,  I  will  not  hear  you  say 
those  things ;  tell  me  you  do  not  mean  it, 
sir ! "  coming  close  to  him,  and  looking 
steadily  in  his  face.  "  Does  it  give  you  the 
slightest  pain  my  going  without  you  to  this 
grand  party  ?  "  she  added. 

"  No,  Maggy.  Have  you  ever  known  me 
so  selfish  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  but  still  looked  at  him 
very  earnestly,  as  though  striving  to  read  the 
expression  of  his  face ;  then  she  repeated, 
"  I  wish  I  had  not  decided  upon  going." 

"What!  when  it  gives  me  such  pleas- 
ure?" 

"  Yes;  I  feel  that  it  would  be  better  for 
me  not  to  go." 

Was  it  some  unbidden  presentiment  of  the 
future,  some  dim  foreknowledge  that  in  the 
great  world  of  London  life  she  would  again 
meet  EarnsclifFe,  that  influenced  Marguerite 
as  she  spoke  ? 

The  carriage  was  announced,  and  her  hus- 
band led  her  to  it ;  then  kindly  kissing  her, 
bade  her  be  happy,  and  sing  her  very  best. 
Afterwards,  with  dignified  pride,  he  told  the 

coachman  to  drive  to  H House.  But, 

when  he  returned  to  the  empty  dining-room 
— still  thinking  of  his  wife,  and  this  ncwr 
sphere  of  admiration  and  excitement  into 
which  she  was  thrown — there  was  a  mixed 
feeling  in  Mr.  Mortimer's  appreciation  of 
their  freshly-arisen  grandeur. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THERE  was  actually  a  hush  of  admiration 
when  Marguerite  made  her  appearance  in 


136 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


the  Countess  of  E 1s  stately  reception- 
rooms,  unattended,  unknown  ;  but  with  the 
quiet  self-possession  that  was  innate  in  her, 
and  covered  with  diamonds  that  might  have 
formed  the  dowry  of  a  young  duchess. 

Lady  E was  exceedingly  civil  in  her 

reception  of  Marguerite,  and  her  regrets 
that  Mr.  Mortimer  was  unable  to  come  ;  for 
St.  Leon  was  already  at  her  side,  and  hear- 
ing every  word  she  uttered. 

"  I  am  really  indebted  to  you,"  she  whis- 
pered to  him  (but  so  loud  that  Marguerite 
beard  it).  "  At  the  close  of  a  season,  such 
a  face,  such  matchless  grace  as  your  cousin1s, 
is  indeed  refreshing  among  all  the  well-known 
pale  faces  of  London  !  Mrs.  Mortimer,  al- 
low me  to  introduce  my  sister  to  you — Lady 
Millicent  Gore." 

A  pale,  interesting-looking  woman,  seated 
near  the  countess,  bowed  to  Marguerite, 
and  made  room  for  her  by  her  side.  "  My 
sister  is  so  engaged  in  receiving  her  guests, 
that  you  must  allow  me  to  take  her  place  in 
introducing  you  to  our  friends,  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer. As  a  foreigner,  most  of  the  people 
about  you  must  be  strangers." 

"  I  know  no  one,  madame,  except  Gas- 
ton,"  glancing  at  her  cousin,  who  remained 
hovering  about  her,  as  though  to  afford  her 
encouragement.  *'  I  have  never  been  out 
before !  " 

The  lady,  of  course,  thought  she  meant  in 
England,  and  returned,  "  I  fear  our  English 
society  will  not  please  you  as  much  as  your 
own.  All  my  early  life  was  spent  abroad, 
and  when  I  first  returned  to  England.  I  was 
incessantly  struck  wirh  the  great  difference 
in  the  tone  of  our  manners — the  want,  above 
all,  of  that  perfect  ease  and  absence  of  re- 
straint which  characterises  good  foreign  so- 
ciety, that  of  Paris  especially." 

"  I  was  never  in  Paris.  Until  T  came  to 
England,  all  my  life  was  spent  in  Bretagne." 

Gaston  advanced  to  her  side. 

"  More  of  the  old  noblesse  of  France,  and 
of  their  old  courtly  manners,  yet  linger  in 
Bretagne  than  in  any  other  of  our  provinces, 
madame,"  he  said,  addressing  Lady  Milli- 
cent. 

"  So  I  have  heard  ;  and  that  strangers  are 
very  rarely  admitted  among  them.  From 
what  part  of  Brittany  do  you  come.  Mrs. 
Mortimer?  " 

"  From  the  very  wildest  part  of  the  ex- 
treme west — a  part  that  few  English  people, 
1  find,  have  ever  heard  of." 

"  Von  speak  English  so  well — with  scarce- 
ly any  foreign  accent." 

"My  father  was  English — so  either  lan- 
guage is  familiar  to  me." 

"  You  speak  it  better  than  your  cousin,1* 
*aid  Lady  Millirent.  "The  maiquis  has  an 
excellent  aeeent,  but  lie  has  not  our  idiom." 

"  No,"  replied  Marguerite  ;  "  and  lie  will 
nlway  render  Freneh  idioms  into  Knglish, 
word  lor  word.  Gaston,  do  you  hear  that 


mine  is  pronounced  the  best  English  ?  We 
often  argue  that  point.'1 

Some  acquaintances  of  Lady  Millicent's 
stopping  to  speak  to  her,  her  attention  was 
taken  from  Marguerite,  who  turned  towards 
St.  Leon.  "  Gaston  "  (in  French)  "  how 
kind  of  you  to  be  here  already  for  my  sake  ! 
I  know  that  you  dislike  going  to  early  par- 
ties." 

"  But  you  do  not  want  my  protection,  Mar- 
guerite. You  look  as  composed  as  though 
you  had  been  to  every  party  this  season." 

"I  do  not  feel  so,  I  can  assure  you.  My 
heart  beat  violently  when  I  came  in.  Do  you 
know,  at  the.  very  last,  I  tried  to  persuade 
Mr.  Mortimer  to  accompany  me?  " 

"  Thank  all  the  gods  he  stayed  away," 
thought  Gaston.  "Ah!  you  will  not  mind 
going  out  alone  the  next  time,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "  Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas  qui 
coute  ! " 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  very  well ;  but  T  do  not 
suppose  I  shall  have  any  more  invitations." 

"  Ah,  some  one  is  going  to  sing — who  is 
it?  I  surely  remember  that  handsome  face." 

"  That  handsome  face  belongs  to  Mario, 
madame.  He  and  Grisi  are  going  to  sing  a 
duet.11 

"  And  I  shall  be  expected  to  sing  in  the 
same  room  with  them.  Oh !  I  do  feel  shy 
now." 

"  More  than  you  did  at  the  prospect  of 
singing  before  dukes  and  countesses?  You 
told  me  yesterday  you  had  no  dread  at  all." 

"  Before  them,  certainly  not.  They  may 
know  no  more  of  music  than  I  do ;  but  be- 
fore great  artistes, — yes  Gaston,"  in  a  low 
voice,  "  I  should  like  to  be  introduced  to 
them." 

"  N'en  parlez  pas,  ma  cousine  !  One  is  not 
introduced  to  professional  singers  !  If  you 
ever  require  them  in  your  own  house,  you 
will  engage  them,  and  pay  them  so  mueh  a- 
night.  You  do  not  suppose  that  they  are  ac- 
quaintances of  the  Countess  of  E — 

"Hush!  they  are  beginning.  Ah,  now 
for  real  enjoyment !  " 

After  the  duet,  which  was  delicious,  a  great 
amateur  harpist  performed  a  long  piece,  with 
the  assistance  of  an  amatei.r  plains:,  of  im- 
mense execution  and  no  taste  (all  of  which 
Marguerite  thought  remarkably  unpleasing). 
Then  the  Ihidiess  of  Somebody  .sang — very 
mildly;  then  Herr  Some  One  Else  played  on 
an  extraordinarv  instrument,  that  lie  had 
been  fifteen  years  in  constructing,  and  fifteen 

more  in  learning  to  play;   then    Lady  10 

came  to  Marguerite.  Slie  had  been  introduc- 
ed to  several  people  in  the  meantime  by  Lady 
Millicent  and  (Jaston,  and  was  now  Mirronml- 
eil  bv  a  little  circlt — a  Ilnssian  prince,  an  Lng- 
lish  earl,  one  or  two  younger  sons,  St.  Leon, 
of  course,  and  a  celcbra'ed  author.  To  tho 
latter  she  was  speaking  with  much  more  ani- 
mation than  to  anv  of  the  others.  She  won- 
dered whether  he-  had  ever  known  Kuril*- 
chile  ! 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


137 


"  Mrs.  Mortimer,  T  have  come  to  claim 
your  kind  promise.  Marquis,  will  you  take 
Mrs.  Mortimer  to  the  piano?" 

Lady  Millicent  good-naturedly  followed, 
thinking  Marguerite  must  feel  timid  amidst 
such  crowds  of  strangers.  "  Shall  I  stand 
beside  you  ?  "  she  whispered. 

44  Oh,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  I  should  great- 
ly prefer  it  f  But  I  am  not  very  nervous  now." 

"  Have  you  notes?  "  asked  Gaston,  much 
more  flurried  than  she  was,  about  her  success. 

"No;  I  never  use  notes.  What  would  be 
best  forme  to. sing?"  (to  Lady  Millicent) 
Italian  or  English  ?  " 

"  Italian,  perhaps,  as  the  last  song  was  an 
English  one ;  but  let  your  own  taste  guide 
you." 

After  a  few  bold  chords — she  seldom  play- 
ed the  regular  written  accompaniments  to  her 
songs — Marguerite  began  an  Italian  bravura, 
and  in  a  second  every  one  seemed  electrified. 
Marguerite  never  sang  better  in  her  life. 
Constant  attendance  at  the  opera,  and  first- 
rate  instruction,  joined  to  singular  natural 
ability,  had  given  her  an  artistic  style  of  ex- 
pression almost  unknown  among  young  la- 
dies— a  style  which  made  even  Grisi  rush 
hastily  to  the  concert  room,  to  see  if  some 
new  singer  had  arrived  beside  herself.  Dur- 
ing amateur  performances,  the  artistes  usual- 
ly waited  in  patient  resignation,  and  without 
hearing  a  note. 

44  Ecco  una  voce!  Gran1  Dio  !  Ecco  una 
voce!  "  Could  Marguerite  have  seen  the  face 
of  the  great  artiste,  her  triumph  would  have 
been  far  greater  to  herself  than  it  was  at  all 
the  praises  that  were  showered  upon  her  at 
the  conclusion  of  her  performance.  Lady 

E was  almost  in  tears  of  delight  that 

such  a  debut  should  have  been  made  in  her 
house,  and  seized  both  of  Marguerite's  hands 
as  she  was  going  to  rise  from  the  piano. 

*'  One  more,  Mrs.  Mortimer — only  a  little 
ballad — anything  you  like ;  but  really  we 
cannot  so  soon  lose  your  exquisite  voice  !  " 

Marguerite  smiled,  and  re-seated  herself. 

44  One  of  your  Breton  romances,"  whis- 
pered St.  Leon,  close  beside  her.  He  knew 
too  well  the  secrets  of  effect  not  to  be  aware 
how  a  plaintive  ballad  would  tell  after  the 
Italian  bravura. 

She  chose,  this  time,  the  wild  dirge  she 
had  sung  to  Earnscliffe  on  the  first  evening  he 
had  ever  heard  her ;  and,  perhaps,  that  rec- 
ollection gave  more  than  usual  pathos  to  her 
voice.  The  lights,  the  strange  faces  around 
her  vanished.  She  was  by  .the  open  window 
again  at  Kersaint,  with  the  summer  sun-set 
streaming  into  the  old  room,  and  gilding  the 
graceful  outline  of  Philip's  figure,  as  he  stood 
in  the  deep  embrasure  watching  her.  When 
she  concluded,  amid  a  universal  and  genuine 
murmur  of  applause,  the  only  words  she 
heard  were  those  of  St.  Leon. 

44  Thank  you,  Marguerite."  His  voice 
sounded  so  exactly  like  Philip's  that  she  turn- 
ed round  with  a  start ;  and  something  in  her 


cousin's  attitude  at  the  moment  completed 
the  resemblance. 

44  Phil  —  Gaston  —  oh!  cousin  —  I  mean." 
Her  color  went  and  came,  and  a  sudden 
emotion  shot  through  St.  Leon's  heart.  He 
was  no  coxcomb,  but,  while  handing  Mar- 
guerite to  her  seat,  he  ventured,  very  slight- 
ly, to  press  the  little  hand  upon  his  arm. 

44  How  you  blushed,  Marguerite,  as  you 
finished  vour  last  song ;  were  you  conscious 
of  it?"" 

44  No  —  yes.  Oh,  Gaston,  my  thoughts 
were  far  away." 

44  You  are  complimentary,  madame.  Am 
I  completely  beyond  consideration  ?  " 

44  Why  I  see  you  every  day,  dear  Gaston. 
You  know  I  could  not  be  thinking  of  you.1' 

44  What  a  dreadful  coquette  !  "  remarked 
some  well-trained  English  girls,  who  were 
watching  Marguerite  and  her  cousin.  44  Look 
at  the  way  she  smiles  and  beams  up  in  that 
man's  face  !  But  then  all  Frenchwomen  are 
the  same.  And  a  married  woman  too,  which 
makes  it  worse  !  " 

44  Let  me  take  you  to  supper,"  whispered 
Gaston.  4<  I  see  our  hostess  bringing  up 
some  one  to  introduce  to  you,  but  remember 
that  you  are  engaged  to  me." 

From  that  evening  Marguerite  became  the 
fashion.  Much  as  we  talk  of  exclusiveness, 
our  aristocracy  is  probably  less  exclusive 
than  any  other  in  the  world;  and  great 
wealth  or  great  talent  can  at  any  time  gain 
admittance  more  easily  into  London  society 
than  into  that  of  half  the  capitals  in  Europe. 
Marguerite,  too,  had  riches,  talent,  beauty; 
and,  at  least,  on  her  mother's  side,  high 
birth.  And  besides  all  this  she  was  half  a 
foreigner — a  circumstance  which  in  itself 
casts  down  many  barriers  in  England — so 
her  husband's  business  and  himself  were  tac- 
itly ignored  by  the  great  people  who  wished 
to  secure  Mrs.  Mortimer  for  their  parties. 
He  was  asked  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  had 
the  good  taste  invariably  to  decline;  and 
Marguerite  gradually  became  accustomed  to 
go  everywhere  alone.  The  slight  feeling  of 
uneasiness  he  had  experienced  on  her  debut 
wore  off,  as  he  perceived  how  little  her  new 
kind  of  life  altered  his  wife.  She  told  him 
so  exactly  the  admiration  she  received,  the 
compliments  that  were  paid  her — poor  Gas- 
ton  included — that  it  would  have  required  a 
more  suspicious  nature  than  even  Mortimer's 
to  harbor  any  feelings  of  jealousy ;  and  he 
was  soon  prouder  than  he  chose  to  confess 
of  his  wife's  success,  and  of  her  entrance  in- 
to '4  grand  society." 

44  But  Marguerite,"  he  said,  one  morning 
at  breakfast,  as  she  described  some  brilliant 
ball  on  the  previous  evening;  44  does  not  the 
thought  often  cross  your  mind,  among  all 
these  handsome  young  men,  of  your  old 
plain  husband  at  home,  making  you  wish 
that  you  had  not  chosen  so  young,  and  be- 
fore you  had  seen  anything  of  the  world? 


138 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


Confess,  Marguerite ;  such  is  sometimes  the 
case ! " 

"Never,  Mr.  Mortimer.  I  have  never 
yet  met  any  one  among  them  who  really  in- 
terested me.  I  still  like  Gaston  far  the  best 
among  all  the  young  men  I  am  acquainted 
with — and  you  know  precisely  how  I  feel 
towards  him." 

"Then,  Maggy,  must  I  believe  that  your 
heart  is  pre-occupied  ?  " 

"  1  believe  it  is  so,  sir,"  she  replied,  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

Mortimer  knew  not  the  unacknowledged 
memory  which  made  all  others  seem  so  poor 
and  weak  compared  to  it — knew  not  that 
his  own  strong  safeguard  was  in  the  shade 
of  his  wife1s  old  lover  ! 

That  season  passed  away — another  came 
— and  Marguerite's  popularity  rather  in- 
oreased  than  waned.  Her  extraordinary 
voice  made  her  a  welcome  acquisition  every- 
where ;  and  the  whole  musical  world  were 
now  as  anxious  to  engage  her  for  their  con- 
certs as  they  were  to  get  Grisi  or  Alboni. 

When  Georgy  said  that  the  world  and 
amusement  would  soon  efface  Marguerite's 
recollection  of  Philip,  she  was,  to  a  limited 
extent,  correct.  To  forget  him  was  not  in 
Marguerite's  nature — to  love  again  was  im- 
possible ;  but  she  had  not  now  the  time  to 
think  of  him  as  formerly.  The  desire  of 
distinction  that  lies  dormant  in  every  human 
heart — desires  which,  had  she  married  Earns- 
cliffe,  would  never  have  germinated  in  hers 
—  now  took  the  place  of  a  softer  interest  in 
life.  Young,  gifted  and  admired  beyond  the 
usual  lot,  Marguerite  was  happy — if  such  a 
life  can  ever  make  a  woman's  happiness  — 
at  all  events,  her  existence  flowed  smoothly 
on,  and  no  longer  stagnated  as  in  the  first 
dull  years  of  her  marriage. 

As  may  be  conceived,  Georgy  de  Burgh 
and  her  mother  made  indefatigable  efforts  to 
get  acquainted  with  ••  great  people  "  on  the 
strength  of  their  dear  Marguerite's  success. 
But  this  she  knew  from  the  first  was  impossi- 
ble ;  and  Mortimer  at  length  made  one  or 
two  such  unmistakably  plain  speeches  on  the 
subject  (when  they  had  been  wearying  his 
wife  with  supplications  to  get  them  invited 
to  Lady  Someone's  ball),  that  they  had  .tak- 
en serious  ofl'ence  ;  and  although  Danby 
still  continued  to  call  as  usual,  Marguerite 
now  saw  little  of  either  of  the  ladies. 

But  St.  Leon  was  a  most  constant  visit  01 
at  the  Moi  timers1.  His  relationship  gave 
him,  of  course,  a  claim  to  more  than  ordina- 
ry intimacy,  ami,  whatever  his  inmost  feel- 
ings mi^'lit  be  towards  Marguerite,  he  had  as 
Vet  SO  scrupulously  concealed  them,  that  sh< 
had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  anything 
more  than  fiiendship  on  his  part.  Her  o\vi 
manner  to  him  continued  the  same  as  it  IKK 
always  been — fjuito  open  and  unconstrained 
As  she  had  told  Mortimer.  >he  |ircfi-rreil  IH-I 
ripiisin  to  any  other  man  with  whom  she  was 
acquainted,  and,  perhaps,  had  her  heart  beci 


rholly  unoccupied,  there  might  have  been 
anger  in  this  constant  intimacy.  Remem- 
>ering  Philip,  however,  she  saw  precisely 
fhere  Gaston  was  shallow  and  unreal ;  if  his 
oice  softened  she  knew  he  was  acting  :  if  he 
cad  to  her,  or  sang  to  her,  or  walked  with 
er,  she  remembered  how  she  had  done  all 
his  once  before  with  Philip  beside  her,  and 
he  present  seemed  in  a  moment  as  a  faint, 
old  shadow  compared  to  that  warm  and 
;olden  past. 

And  yet,  while  Philip's  recollection  always 

tood  between  Marguerite  and  St.  Leon,  the 

esemblance,    real     or     fancied,    which    she 

raced  to  Earnscliffe  in  his  features,  was  the 

greatest  interest  her  cousin  possessed  to  her; 

ind  a  sudden  look  or  expression  of  his  would 

ften  so  bring  back  Philip  and  old  days,  that 

— utterly  unable  to  master  her  emotion — she 

vould   blush   and   tremble,  just  as  she  had 

done  years  before  at  Kersaint.    These  blush- 

s,  these  tremors,  fatally  misled  St  Leon. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

FOUR  years  passed  away  after  Earnscliffe 
lad  parted  with  Neville  in  Rome  before  he 
returned  to  England.  The  first  eighteen 
months  he  had  spent  in  Italy  and  Greece ; 
the  latter  part  of  the  time  in  the  East  among 
the  wildest,  least  frequented  districts  of 
Arabia  and  Syria.  During  this  period,  but 
only  at  intervals,  he  had  continued  to  write, 
and  each  successive  work  bore  evidence  of 
deeper  thought,  and  was  imbued  with  a 
healthier  tone  than  had  characterised  even 
the  best  of  his  earlier  writings.  In  this  long 
intercourse  with  nature,  freed  from  the  ener- 
vating influences  of  social  life,  I'hilip  had 
regained  much  that  the  world,  with  its  pleas- 
ures and  disappointments,  had  taken  from  the 
fresh  genius  of  his  youth.  In  the  absence  of 
all  human  companionship,  he  had  created 
for  himself  a  wild  and  lonely  peril,  that 
was  eminently  calculated  to  strengthen  into 
self-dependence  his  formerly  yielding,  some- 
what indolent  character;  and  he  was  now  re- 
turning home,  Unconscious  of  the  change, 
with  renewed  ardor  and  ambition,  and  his 
whole  moial  being  braced  in  a  manlier,  more, 
vigorous  tone. 

An  event  had  occurred  {o,>.  during  this 
interval,  which,  Philip  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess, removed  his  strongest  reasons  for  liv- 
ing abroad,  and  his  morbid  di-lastc  lor  Eng- 
land. He  was  once  mo! e  free  !  After  three 
years  of  ill  health,  spent,  first  in  the  spend- 
thrift ^randenr  of  her  father's  house,  then  in 
poverty,  uncheered  bv  either  affection  or  re- 
spect, Lady  ('lira  died.  BftlTlMcliffti  did  not 
hear  of  her  death  without  a  cert.ir  emotion, 
although  it  was  impossible  il  could  cause 
him  anything  like  real  grief.  He  had  written 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


139 


to  his  wife  after  Lord  St.  Leger's  break- 
down, offering  all  the  assistance  in  his  pow- 
er, and  entreating  her  to  receive  some  allow- 
ance from  him.  *'  For  my  sake  I  ask  you  to 
•accept  it,"  he  had  written,  "  for  the  sake  of 
our  childish  days.  Show  sufficient  generosi- 
ty to  give  me  this  pleasure  !  "  But,  whatever 
softer  feelings  Clara's  better  nature  may  have 
prompted,  the  letter  remained  unanswered  : 
and  Philip  heard  of  her  no  more,  until  he 
accidentally  read  the  announcement  of  her 
death  in  an  English  paper  at  Smyrna.  She 
had  then  been  dead  some  months ;  and,  by 
the  following  spring,  Earnscliffe  finally  quit- 
ted the  East,  and  resolved  to  return  for  good 
to  his  own  country. 

Although,  in  his  exile,  he  had  often  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  deserts  were  far 
more  suited  to  him  than  cities,  he  could 
scarcely  repress  the  pleasure  with  which  he 
once  more  found  himself  in  Paris. 

He  met  several  old  faces  among  the  idle 
crowds  on  the  boulevards ;  but  not  one  that 
lit  up  with  an  expression  of  recognition  at 
Seeing  him — (Philip  was  greatly  changed, 
sunburnt,  and  stouter,  and  a  beard  of  two 
years'  growth  completely  metamorphosed  the 
once  soft,  dreamy  character  of  his  features)  ; 
and,  at  last,  he  turned  in  to  a  solitary  dinner 
at  Les  Trois  Freres,  where  he  was  soon 
obliged  to  allow  that  coquilles  de  volatile  h  la 
•fmancikre.  eqigrammes  d'agneau,  and  meri- 
gues  glacts,  tasted  excellent,  after  the  wild 
meals  improvised  by  himself  in  Arabia  Pe- 
traea  ;  and  that  chablis  and  hock  were  prefer- 
able to  black  coffee  and  arrack  of  the  desert. 

•*  Neville  was  right,"  he  thought.  "  I  re- 
member, he  told  me  that  at  five-and-thirty,  I 
should  have  done  with  sentiment,  and  be 
glad  to  return  to  the  substantial  things  of 
this  world.  I  am  not  quite  so  old,  but  t  have 
certainly  no  sentiment  left ;  and,  as  for  the 
world — garcon,  bring  me  the  bills  for  the 
theatre  to-night."  He  glanced  over  the 
names  of  the  performers,  and  it  gave  him  an 
old  feeling  to  perceive  that  they  were  nearly 
all  strange  ones.  "I  am  like  an  unrolled 
mummy,  or  Robinson  Crusoe,"  he  thought. 
"  On  the  earth,  but  not  belonging  to  it.  1 
wonder  what  has  become  of  Celeste  an<] 
Fridoline,  and  poor  little  Rose  !  "  And  Phil- 
ip sat  long  over  his  dessert,  thinking  of  his 
old  loves,  as  he  sipped  his  wine,  but  looking 
by  no  means  miserable. 

"Eh,  mon  Dieu,  est  il  possible?"  burst 
at  last  from  the  lips  of  a  Frenchman  who  was 
taking  coffee  at  another  table,  and  had  been 
intently  watching  him  for  about  half-an-hour, 
*' Can  I  really  see  Monsieur  Earnscliffe?" 
coming  up  to  him  with  both  hands  extended, 

After  a  second's  hesitation,  Philip  recog- 
nised a  rather  silly  looking  young  man, 
Monsieur  Deschamps,  by  name,  with  whom 
Le  had  formerly  been  slightly  acquainted  in 
Paris;  and,  glad  to  meet  with  anything  tha 
connected  him  with  the  land  of  the  living,  he 


cordially  returned  the  friendly  greeting  of 
he  Frenchman. 

*'  I  am  surprised  that  you  know  me,"  he 
remarked  ;  "  several  of  my  countrymen  pass- 
ed me  to-day,  with  no  signs  of  recognition." 

'  Until  I  heard  you  speak  to  one  of  the 
garcons,  I  was  uncertain  ;  but  I  could  not 
3e  mistaken  in  the  tones  of  your  voice.  My 
wife  —  T  am  married,  now  —  has  often  said  to 
Tie,  •  Monsieur  Earnscliffe'  s  was  the  only 
pleasant  voice  she  ever  heard  in  England/  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  happiness. 
But,  have  I  indeed  the  honor  of  being  an  ac- 
quaintance of  Madame  Deschampj*  " 

•'My  wife's  former  name  was  Madem- 
oiselle Celeste  -  " 

"  Celeste  !  "  exclaimed  Philip.  "  Do  you 
mean  -  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  the  celebrated  Celeste. 
But  she  has  long  since  abandoned  the  stage," 
he  added,  with  dignity.  *•  Half  the  year  we 
live  on  our  estates  in  Normandy,  the  other 
half  in  Paris  ;  and  we  shall  be  charmed  to 
see  you  chez  nous  Hotel  Rohan,  Rue  St. 
Maur,  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  Indeed,  to- 
night is  one  of  Celeste's  receptions,  and  I 
am  sure  she  will  be  delighted  to  see  again  so 
distinguished  a  personage  as  Monsieur  Earns- 


Philip  bowed  to  the  compliment,  and 
promised  to  call  at  the  Hotel  Rohan  in  the 
course  of  the  evening. 

*«  You  will  meet  several  of  your  compatri- 
ots ;  for  Celeste  admits  many  strangers  to 
her  societies,,  in  consideration  of  the  happy 
years  she  spent  abroad,  especially  in  your 
country.  Lady  Kentish  and  Mrs.  Dodd 
Tracy  are  of  her  friends  the  most  intimate." 

It  was  late  when  he  arrived,  and  the 
guests  were  long  assembled.  The  house  of 
Celeste's  husband  was  exactly  such  a  hotei 
as  used  to  be  considered  aristocratic  in  "  the 
Faubourg  "  —  entre  cour  et  jardin  —  and  dull, 
huge,  and  damp.  It  had  been  purchased 
from  some  ruined  family  by  the  father  of 
Monsieur  Anatole,  and  he  considered  that  it 
gave  a  kind  of  halo  of  good  birth  to  reside 
there  himself;  although  poor  Celeste's  own 
taste  much  more  warmly  inclined  to  a  cheerful, 
noisy  apartment  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

Celeste  knew  Earnscliffe  instantly  ;  and 
advanced  with  a  blush  and  exclamation  that 
were  not  acted,  to  meet  him.  "  Oh,  Philip  !  " 
in  a  very  low  voice,  "  this  is  unexpected  !  " 

He  told  her  in  two  words  of  his  meeting 
with  Monsieur  Deschamps,  and  how  gladly 
he  had  availed  himself  of  his  invitation. 

"  You  must  stop  till  all  these  people  are 
gone,"  she  replied,  still  in  the  same  tone. 
"  It  is  already  late,  and  then  we  can  talk  over 
old  times.  But  the  world,  and  your  compa- 
triots especially,  are  so  censorious,  that  I 
must  not  even  appear  glad  to  see  you  now. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  some  of  your  own 
country-people  !  " 

"  Who  in  the  world  can  all  these  people 


140 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


be  ? "  thought  Philip,  after  he  had  looked 
about  him.  "  They  certainly  look  respec- 
table.'1 

He  did  not  know  anything  of  a  certain 
class  of  English  in  Paris,  or  he  would  have 
felt  no  surprise  at  seeing  them  at  Celeste's 
house,  or  anywhere  else.  A  class  made  up 
of  odds-and-ends  of  society — Mrs.  Dodd 
Traceys  and  Lady  Kentishes — who,  for  some 
1  ttle  reasons,  are  just  not  received  in  Lon- 
don, but  manage  to  pass  current  better 
abroad — these — and  others  brought  by  them 
and  of  a  still  more  mystic  origin — constitu- 
ted Celeste's  British  guests. 

Her  hiJsband — who  had  married  her  in  a 
sillv  freak,  or  perhaps  with  the  wish  to  do 
something  remarkable — was  really  a  man  of 
tolerable  property,  though  of  low  birth  ;  and 
seme  of  his  connections — decent  shopekepers 
mostly — made  up  the  French  part  of  the 
company,  and  were  looked  upon  by  the  En- 
glish as  models  of  foreign  breeding  and  high 
birth.  Better  bred  they  certainly  showed 
themselves  than  his  own  country-people ; 
for,  when  Earnscliffe's  name  was  known,  the 
latter  all  crowded  round  him,  and  solicited 
introductions,  until  he  was  literally  bored  to 
death.  And  it  was  with  the  feeling  of  the 
most  intense  relief  that  he  watched  the  last 
of  them — Mrs.  Dodd  Tracey — depart  about 
midnight,  and  found  himself  alone  among  the 
chandeliers  with  Celeste. 

"  You  have  grown  so  handsome,  Philip — 
I  can  call  you  so  when' no' one  hears  :  but  you 
look  much  older." 

"  You  are  still  handsome,  Celeste;  and 
look  younger  than  ever." 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled ;  but  then 
said  her  quiet  life  now  was,  of  course,  less 
wearing  than  it  used  to  be  when  on  the 
stage. 

44  And  happier?" 

*4  Oh.  yes  ! — I  was  getting  tired  of  acting, 
and  ovations,  and  suppers,  and  all  the  rest 
•of  i(.  And  now  I  have  everything  I  like,  a 
very  nice  house,  as  you  see — only  rather  dull 
— a  dear"  little  carriage  of  my  own,  and — 
better  than  all — a  son  two  years  old,  with 
Llark  eyes  and  long  hair,  beau  comine  un 
ange.  I  should  like  you  to  see  him.  But 
Mt  down — not  there — here,  where  I  can  see 
you,  and  talk.  I  do  like  to  hear  your  voice; 
it  reminds  me  so  of  old  days  !  " 

Philip  sealed  himself  as  she  requeued. 
"  You  must  have  a  good  deal  to  tell  me, 
(  ,-1, 

44  Yes,  but  your  story  first.  All  that  has 
happened  to  you  from  the  verv  last  day  I  saw 
you." 

Omitting  all  mention  of  Kersaint,  Philip 
gave  h.-r  a  resume  of  his  wandering*,  des- 
cribing just  the  scenes  and  people  she  was 
likely  to  care  about;  and  (Vle-tr  listened 
with  great  :n'cn-t.  and  her  plump  hands 
clasped  in  a  charming  attitude  of  atten- 
tion. 

*4  Voila  tout!"  she  cried,  as  he  finished. 


**  Ah  !  and  you  have  become  (/uite  a  philos- 
opher among  these  dreadful  deserts  without 
doubt.  Mon  pauvre  ami,  how  sentimental 
you  used  to  be  ! " 

44  Very  long  ago  ;  I  do  not  look  sentimen- 
tal now  ;  do  I  ?  " 

44  Oh,  no;  you  have  quite  lost  that  indes- 
cribable expression  ;  that  softness — not  of 
voice,  that  is  the  same  as  ever — but  of  face. 
All  your  youth  is  gone." 

44  It  should  be,  I  am  getting  old." 

44  Do  not  speak  of  it,  what  must  I  be  ?  " 

44  For  some  people  time  remains  station- 
ary." 

44  Ah !  you  never  used  to  make  pretty 
speeches,  poor  little  Fridoline  often  said  that 
was  your  great  charm." 

44  Fridoline  ! "  echoed  Philip.  '4  T  had  al- 
most forgotten  her.  Where  is  Fridoline  ?  a 
great  actress  she  must  be  by  this  time." 

44  She  is  gone,"  said  Celeste,  gravely. 
44  No,  not  dead  ;  but  returned — vanished  as 
she  came.  Some  news  respecting  the  death 
of  a  relation  reached  her,  and  she  never 
could  be  induced  to  go  on  the  stage  again. 
Imagine  the  rage  of  the  manager !  She  nad 
to  pay  an  immense  sum  to  get  off  her  en- 
gagement so  suddenly." 

44  But  when  did  all  this  happen?  Is  she 
really  gone — for  ever  ?  " 

44  Oh  !  it  happened  two  or  three  years  ago. 
One  night,  just  as  she  was  going  to  the 
theatre,  she  got  the  letter;  and  a  week  after- 
wards had  quitted  England,  accompanied  by 
an  old  servant,  whom  you  may  remember. 
She  came  to  see  me  in  Paris — it  was  just 
after  my  marriage — looking  years  older,  and 
in  deep  mourning.  I  was  surprised  at  her 
coming  here  ;  for,  of  course,  it  took  her  out 
of  her  way  in  returning  to  Norway  ;  but  she 
said  she  had  a  visit  to  pay  near  Paris,  before 
leaving  France  forever.  That  visit  was  to 
Pere  la  Chaise — and  I  accompanied  her. 

44  Then  you  know  more  about  her  now 
than  you  used  to  do  ?  " 

44  I  know  all;  and  should  like  you  to  do 
so  too.  Tenex  !  I  had  entirely  forgotten  it; 
but  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Fridolint 
herself.  She  gave  it  me,  blushing  and  con- 
fused, the  day  she  left;  and  made  me  prom- 
ise to  keep  it  for  you,  saying,  '  You  will  see 
him  again,  or  hear  of  him,  at  least  —  1  never 
shall.'  Do  you  know,  Monsieur  Karnsclilfe, 
I  believe  pnor  Fi'idoline  loved  you?" 

44  Me,  (YleMei1  Ne\er.  UY  were  friends, 
as  two  young  men  of  the  same  age  might  be 
— nothing  more." 

Celeste  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  believe 
in  these  kind  of  friendships  ;  if  on  the  on<> 
side,  the  feeling  la>ts  a->  it  began,  it  is  sure 
to  become  warmer  on  the  <>t ln-v.  However, 
you  shall  have  the  letter  to  take  home  with 
you;  when  you  have  read  it,  you  can  judge 
for  vnur.-elf.  It  is  c]o<e  at  hand  among  my 
old  letters.  Here  it 

"  I  will  read  it  to-morrow;  let  us  speak  of 
nothing  but  old  times,  now."  And  they  snoke 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


141 


until  the  timepiece  just  beside  them,  chimed 
(wo;  and  Madame  Descharnp  started  at  its 
sound,  and  appeared  suddenly  to  recollect 
that  she  was  no  longer  Celeste. 

44  I  hope  you  are  not  leaving  Paris  yet?" 

44  A  polite  way  of  bidding  me  good-night, 
fnadame  !  You  have  not  told  me  of  all  our 
mutual  friends  yet,  or,  more  interesting  still, 
half  enough  about  yourself." 

44  Mais  voila  Anatole  qui  rentre  !  "  exclaim- 
ed Celeste,  as  a  man's  step  was  heard  on  the 
staircase;  44  and  two  hours  in  the  morn- 
ing! " — speaking  English. — •'  It  is  frightful, 
these  Paris  husbands." 

Monsieur  Anatole  entered,  and  smiled  af- 
fably to  Philip.  44Ah,  Monsieur  Earns- 
cliffe  !  I  am  charmed  that  you  have  honored 
us.  She  is  looking  well,  is  she  not?  "  taking 
his  wife's  hand  affectionately. 

44  Remarkably  well !  "  answered  Philip. 
«'  I  was  just  telling  her  so,"  he  thought, 
"  when  you  interrupted  me."  However,  he 
was  silent.  There  seemed  such  perfect  har- 
mony and  good  understanding  in  the  mkn- 
age,  he  could  not  for  worlds  have  disturbed 
it. 

44 1  have  already  trespassed  too  much  on 
your  kindness,  madame.  In  talking  over  so 
many  old  friends  and  scenes,  I  have  forgot- 
ten time,"  he  said  bowing  to  Celeste  :  "  and 
now  I  must  have  the  pain  of  again  wishing 
you  good-bye ;  only  this  time  I  trust  it  will 
be  for  months,  not  years." 

44  Ah,  you  are  hastening  back  to  London 
so  soon ! " 

44  Yes;  I  am  obliged  to  leave  to-morrow 
morning;  but  next  winter  I  hope  to  return 
to  Paris  for  some  months,  and " 

44  You  will  come  to  see  us — you  will  count 
us  of  your  friends?  "  said  Celeste's  husband, 
warmly  seizing  both  his  hands,  and  with  act- 
ual tears  in  his  eyes. 

44  The  French  are  a  singular  people ! " 
thought  Philip,  as  he  walked  home  in  the 
moonlight  to  his  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

WHEX  he  was  half-way  between  Paris  and 
Boulogne,  the  following  morning,  Philip  took 
Fridoiine's  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  broke 
the  seal.  The  contents  were  as  follows  : — 

44 1  shall  never  see  you  more.  Monsieur 
Earnschffe.  When  you  receive  this  letter, 
my  name  will  come  back  to  you  like  a  dream 
long  forgotten.  You  will  say,  •  Ah,  poor 
little  Fridoline !  I  remember,  now,  there 
was  something  about  her  I  never  understood.1 
And  just  for  this  reason  I  write  you.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  world  I  care  nothing  how  I  am 
remembered.  I  may  be  merely  called  eccen- 
tric, or  classed  with  all  other  actresses ;  but 
to  you — I  know  not  why — I  would  appear  as 


I  really  am.  The  time  is  past  when  it  could 
injure  any  one  to  disclose  the  secret  of  my 
life — the  reason  for  secresy,  alas  !  exists  no 
longer.  Philip,  let  me  tell  you  briefly  why  I 
left  my  own  country — why  I  followed  a  pro- 
fession, and  associated  with  a  class,  that  was 
abhorrent  to  me ! 

44  My  earliest  recollections  are  of  a  Nor- 
wegian village,  buried  in  the  depth  of  pine 
forests  and  wild  mountains — where,  for  more 
than  half  the  year,  the  snow  never  melted ; 
and  of  a  large,  old  farm  house,  of  which  on- 
ly a  few  rooms  on  the  first-floor  were  fur- 
nished, and  where  I  lived  with  my  Aunt 
Christina,  and  one  servant — Hulda,  who  has 
never  left  me. 

44  My  aunt  was  tall,  and  thin,  and  severe; 
and  appeared  to  be  of  immense  age — al- 
though I  suppose,  in  my  childhood,  she  could 
not  have  more  than  reached  middle  life.  She 
loved  me ;  but  with  an  austere  kind  of  love 
that  chilled  me  instinctively.  If  I  danced 
and  sang,  she  shook  her  head,  and  looked 
away  from  me — when  I  played  childish  tricks 
upon  Hulda  or  the  cat,  she  told  me  the  devil 
was  in  my  heart.  Once,  when  I  was  about 
six  years  old,  I  collected  a  quantity  of  spring 
flowers  in  the  forest,  and  made  them  into  a 
wreath  for  my  own  hair,  then  climbing  up  to 
the  glass  in  her  bedroom,  I  was  surveying 
myself  with  great  satisfaction,  when  my  aunt 
suddenly  entered.  4  Vain  already,  child,' 
she  cried  passionately.  4  You  shall  be  dressed 
in  your  old  winter  things  all  the  summer.' 
And  she  flung  my  flowers  far  away  through 
the  window.  Afterwards,  when  she  joined 
us  by  the  kitchen  stove  in  the  evening — for  I 
had  taken  refuge  as  usual  with  Hulda  in  my 
disgrace — I  saw  that  Aunt  Christina's  eyes 
were  red  with  weeping,  and  I  wondered 
where  was  the  sin  of  making  flower  wreaths  ! 
But  Hulda  told  me  I  was  too  young  to  under- 
stand such  things. 

44  As  I  grew  older,  I  was  never  allowed  to 
associate  with  any  of  the  other  girls  in  the 
village.  People  seemed  to  look  upon  us  as 
something  doubtful — my  aunt  held  aloof  from 
everybody;  so  we  had  no  visitors.  1  think 
ghe  only  received  about  two  letters  a  year, 
on  each  of  which  occasions  her  eyes  always 
grew  red,  and  her  manner  to  me  redoubled 
in  severity.  If  1  asked,  why  I  had  no  fa- 
ther or  mother,  or  sisters,  my  questions  were 
checked  so  sternly,  that  I  felt  it  was  very 
wrong  indeed  for  me  to  wish  to  be  related  to 
any  one.  Still,  I  was  not  unhappy.  It 
takes  more  than  loneliness  or  occasional 
punishment  to  subdue  the  natural  spirits  and 
loving  heart  of  a  child. 

44  So  the  time  went  by  till  I  was  fifteen. 
On  that  day  I  fancied  myself  a  woman,  and 
I  told  my  aunt  so.  *  Do  you,  Fridoline? ' 
she  answered.  4  Then  as  you  have  decided 
it  yourself,  so  it  shall  be.  To-day  your 
childhood  ends.'  She  was  right.  From 
that  (lay  I  never  felt  young  again. 

*4I  remember  well  with  what  interest  I 


142 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


seated  myself  by  the  open  window  on  that 
bright  June  morning — eager  to  devour  every 
word  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  Aunt  Chris- 
tina, as  she  sat  opposite  me  in  her  favorite 
stiff  horse-hair  chair.  She  told  me  who  I 
was — what  was  my  mother.  Oh,  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe  !  I  shrink  from  repeating  it  to  you  even 
now — nothing  could  make  me  do  so  but  the 
feeling  that  my  own  character  must  always 
remain  misunderstood  unless  you  hear  my 
history.  Knowing  also  that  you  will  not  be 
harsh  in  your  judgment  upon  her  who  is 
gone ;  and  that,  when  you  have  read,  you 
will  burn  this  letter,  and  never  allow  its  con- 
tents to  be  known  to  any  but  yourself. 

"  They  were  early  left  orphans — these 
two  sisters ; — but  my  mother  was  years  the 
younger,  and  gifted  with  extraordinary 
beauty  and  talent.  From  the  difference  in 
age,  Christina  loved  her  almost  with  the  love 
of  a  mother;  and  when,  at  sixteen,  in  spite 
of  their  religious  education — in  spite  of  all 
she  could  say  against  it — her  young  sister 
embraced  the  life  of  an  actress — it  almost 
broke  her  heart. 

"  The  success  of  the  lovely  Pauline  was  in- 
stant, and  in  a  few  weeks  all  the  young 
nobles  of  Christiania  were  at  her  feet. 
Christina  continued — great  as  was  her  re- 
pugnance to  theatres  and  actors — to  watch 
over  her,  even  when  she  had  to  bear  with 
harsh  words  for  her  untiring  surveillance. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  Natural  vanity — 
levity — /must  call  it  by  no  harsher  name — 
was  too  strong  in  the  heart  of  the  young  ac- 
tress. She  became  the  mistress  *of  Count 

Z f — one  of  the  richest  nobles  in  Norway 

— and,  by  the  time  she  was  seventeen,  was 
my  mother. 

"Christina  had  not  seen  her  for  months; 
but  a  fortnight  after  my  birth,  she  called  at 

the   costly  house    which   Count  Z f  had 

fitted  up  for  Pauline,  and  had  a  long  inter- 
view, in  which  she  made  use  of  every  appeal, 
both  to  affection  and  religion,  in  her  endeav- 
ors to  win  her  back.  But  to  no  avail.  In 
the  height  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  the 
voice  of  poor  Christina  had  little  charm  to 
lure  her  from  her  guilty  splendor  and  the  ap- 
parent devotion  of  a  man  like  Count  Z f ; 

and  she  declined  every  proposal  to  leave 
him,  and  return  with  her  sister  to  the  coun- 
try. 'Then  give  me  the  child,  at  least!1 
said  Christina.  *  Let  me  save  her  innocent 
life  from  contamination,  and bringher up  with 
a  horror  of  all  that  has  lost  you! — faraway 
from  the  world  and  its  temptations.'  It  was 
some  time  before  my  mother  would  consent. 
Tin-  -iron-rest  love  of  humanity  was  not  so 
dead  within  her  that  she  could  give  up  her 
helpless  infant  without  a  pang  !  At  length, 
however,  she  \ieled  ;  Christina  receiving  me 
on  the  sole  conditions  that  I  should  l>< 
tirely  hers  as  though  my  parents  were  act- 
ually <lead,  and  that  she  never  should  be 
asked  to  receive  any  presents  or  money  from 
OiV  mother  on  my  behalf.  '  From  that  time/ 


my  aunt  concluded,  '  I  have  never  seen  her. 
She  left  soon  after  for  Paris,  and  I  believe 

acted  there  for  some  time.     Count  Z f 

deserted  her  at  the  end  of  six  months. 
And  then — but  I  wish  to  enter  into  no  more 
details  to  you,  child — enough  that  your  mother 
still  lives — is  still  guilty.  You  will  not' 
blame  me  now  that  I  have  been  severe  with 
you  ;  and  have  checked  all  approach  to  that 
levity  which  was  her  ruin — although  in  any 
other  child  it  might  have  been  innocent." 

44  I  shrank  away  from  her — I  hid  myself 
in  my  room —  I  prayed  to  God  that  I  might 
die.  The  whole  earth  seemed  suddenly  dark 
and  hideous  to  me ;  and  for  many  weeks 
afterwards  I  was  dangerously  ill  with  brain 
fever. 

44  Just  as  I  was  slowly'  recovering  my 
strength,  my  Aunt  Christina  died  suddenly, 
leaving  me  all  the  small  property  she  pos- 
sessed, and  perfect  mistress  of  my  own  ac- 
tions. I  do  not  think  1  felt  her  death  much 
at  the  time — indeed,  I  was  glad  of  my  new- 
ly-acquired freedom,  for  I  thought  it  would 
enable  me  to  carry  out  a  scheme,  first  framed 
in  the  delirium  of  fever,  but  which  I  had 
pondered  over  calmly  and  ripened  since  :  to 
go  to  Paris,  find  out  my  mother,  and  en- 
deavor to  win  her  from  her  present  life. 

44  It  was  a  wild  idea,  but  yet  we  carried  it 
out — I  and  Hulda.  We  travelled,  and  in 
winter,  the  long,  long  journey  to  Paris  ;  and 
then,  child  as  I  was,  I  had  to  search  for  my 
mother,  with  no  other  clue  than  the  address 
of  the  hotel  where  she  had  lived  some  years 
before.  I  cannot  enter  into  the  hateful  de- 
tails of  that  search — you  may  imagine  them  ; 
but,  strictly  as  I  had  been  reared  in  a  simple 
cottage,  ignorant  of  all  vice,  save  in  name, 
nothing  daunted  me,  and  I  found  her. 

44  She  was  living  in  splendor  at  the  hotel 
of  some  great  Russian  prince,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  I  could  gain  admittance  to  her 
presence.  '  Madame  was  out  ' — k  Madame 
was  ill ' — 4  I  was  not  commanded  ' — 4  I  was 
an  impostor,'  and  so  on.  However,  I  was 
not  to  be  deterred;  and,  after  waiting  about 
for  more  than  two  hours,  I  contrived  to 
steal  up  the  back  staircase  among  some  of 
the  women-servants,  and  then  asked  one  of 
them  to  show  me  to  madame's  room,  offer- 
ing her  five  francs  for  her  trouble.  She  led 
me  along  one  or  two  passages,  ami  then 
pointed  to  a  door,  saying  that  was  the  bed- 
room of  madame,  and  I  must  knock  for  my- 
self— she  would  incur  no  further  respoiiM- 
bility.  In  my  eagerness,  however,  I  forgot 
to  knock;  and,  entering  the  room,  1  saw  a 
lady  richly  dressed,  sitting  in  an  immense 
fur-covered  fauteuil  by  the  lire  embroidering. 
She  turned  with  some  surprise  at  being  in- 
terrupted ;  but,  on  seeing  my  pale  face  and 
worn  black  dress,  doubtless  thought  I  was 
one  of  her  workmen  come  to  solicit  chant  v. 

"  '  Sit  down,1  .she  said,  kindly,  t<»  me, 
4  poor  girl,  and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  \  on.' 

44  The  sound  of  her  voice    made  me   turu 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


quite  sick  with  emotion.  'Madame,1  I  fal- 
tered out,  'I  am  Fridoline ! — 1  am  your 
child ! ' 

*'  She  turned  deadly  pale,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, I  thought  that  she  had  fainted  ;  then 
she  started  up  and  came  to  me,  caught  me  in 
her  arms  and  kissed  me  wildly,  passionately. 
4  Fridoline,  my  own — my  very  own.  Child, 
how  have  I  yearned  to  see  your  face !  my 
child — my  own ! '  She  clasped  me  to  her 
breast;  and,  with  no  more  words  than  such 
as  I  have  just  written,  we  passed  two  hours. 
'*  Ah,  Philip  !  I  knew  that  she  was  a  lost, 
stained  creature,  but  yet  the  deepest  joy  I 
have  ever  known  was  in  those  moments  when 
I  rested  for  the  first  time  upon  my  mother's 
bosom,  and  felt  her  kisses  upon  my  face. 

"  I  thought  from  her  intense  delight  at  see- 
ing me,  that  she  would  at  once  leave  Paris, 
and  return  to  our  quiet  home  with  me  ;  but, 
with  each  secret  visit  that  I  paid  her,  this 
hope  died  away.  When  at  length  I  had  cour- 
age to  approach  the  subject,  and,  as  delicate- 
ly as  a  child  could  do,  besought  her  to  turn 
her  thoughts  to  another  world  than  this,  and 
let  me  devote  all  my  future  life  to  hers,  she 
evaded  the  question  :  and  at  length  I  saw — 
not  that  she  was  entirely  without  remorse  or 
any  better  aspiration — but  that  wealth  and 
luxury  had  -  become  part  of  her  very  exist- 
ence, and  were  ties  too  strong  for  her  to 
give  up ;  and  that  it  was  these  that  bound 
her  to  life. 

'*  Then,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  wish- 
ed for  money,  and  for  her  sake,  and  an  in- 
ward conviction  told  me  that,  if  I  chose,  1 
could  win  it  by  becoming  an  actress.  As  a 
child,  I  had  always  possessed  great  powers 
of  mimicry — although  my  aunt  punished  me 
severely  in  her  hope  of  checking  it.  And 
often  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  when  1 
was  not  more  than  six  years  old,  I  used  to 
convjlse  poor  Hulda  with  laughter  at  my 
representations  of  everybody  in  the  village, 
including  the  pastor  and  Aunt  Christina  her- 
self. But  I  turned  with  loathing,  at  first, 
from  the  idea  of  following  the  same  calling 
that  had  been  my  mother's,  and  only  stifled 
my  prejudice  against  it  as  the  conviction 
gradually  strengthened  upon  my  mind,  that 
it  was  the  sole  thing  open  to  me  in  which  my 
abilities  could  be  brought  to  bear.  Finally, 
I  resolved  upon  making  the  attempt ;  cross- 
ed over  to  England — where  I  heard  I  had  a 
better  chance  than  in  Paris — and  accepted  a 
small  engagement  at  the  French  Plays,  you 
are  aware  with  what  success. 

"I  begin  now  to  think  that  my  scheme 
was  a  false  one,  and  that  even  money  coulc 
not  have  effected  what  maternal  love  had  fail- 
ed in.  But  for  years  no  doubt  ever  crossec 
me  ;  and  this  one  object  kept  me  ever  on,  un- 
tiring in  my  profession,  undismayed  by  diffi- 
culty or,  worse  still,  by  all  the  horrors  of 
vice  that  beset  me.  I  corresponded  at  inter- 
vals, and  by  stealth,  with  my  mother.  She 
always  wrote  with  the  most  touching  affee- 


ion :  said  how  she  gloried  in  my  success,  in 
he  name  I  was  creating ;  but,  above  all,  in 
my  fair,  unspotted  fame ;  and  then  there 
vould  be  regrets  and  faint  resolves  of  her 
own,  soon  to  leave  Paris  for  my  sake.  Very 
aint  they  were,  but  still  enough  to  keep  me 
on  unwearied  at  my  work. 

'  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  I  should 
soon  have  amassed  sufficient  money  to  enable 
is  both  to  live  well  upon  in  Norway,  when 
news  arrived  that  rendered  my  efforts  object- 
ess  for  evermore  :  my  mother  had  died  sud- 
lenly  one  night  on  her  return  from  the  thea- 
tre. The  letter  was  from  her  own  waiting- 
woman,  the  sole  person  who  had  been  admit- 
ted to  the  secret  of  our  relationship,  and  she 
added  that  my  name  was  the  last  sound  upon 
my  mother's  lips  before  she  died. 

"  I  never  acted  again.     My  life  has  lost 
its  aim  now,  and  I  shall  return  to  my   own 
country,  unknown,  unnoticed — as  I  left  it. 
"  Philip,  do  not  quite  forget  me. 

"  FRIDOLINE." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A  VERY  grand  ball  was  to  take  place  at 
the  French  Ambassador's,  to  which  Margue- 
rite was  invited.  Without  knowing  why,  she 
was  much  more  anxious  than  usual  about  her 
dress  for  this  occasion.  Her  dressmaker  was 
astonished  at  the  number  of  times  she  chang- 
ed her  mind,  and  the  numerous  visits  she 
paid  her  before  the  day  came — Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, who  generally  decided  upon  a  toilette 
at  once,  and  never  looked  at  it  again  until 
she  wore  it ! 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  time,  Mr.  Morti- 
mer ?  I  am  sure  all  the  clocks  must  be  slow  ! ." 

Mortimer  was  dozing  in  his  arm-chair  by 
the  fire,  and  Marguerite,  seated  at  one  of 
the  drawing-room  windows,  was  watching 
the  last  fading  hues  of  the  April  twilight, 
and  the  cold-looking  moon  that  rose  among 
the  leafless  elms  in  the  distance.  They  were 
now  living  in  Mortimer's  house  at  Wimble- 
don, where*  he  fancied  the  air  agreed  with 
him  better  than  in  London,  and  which  Mar- 
guerite also  preferred  for  its  gardens  and 
conservatories. 

"Time,  child— how  you  startled  me!  Is 
not  the  time-piece  striking  something?" 

"  It  must  be  slow;  surely  it  is  long  past 
eight !  " 

"How  anxious  you  are  to  put  on  your 
finery,  Maggy.  Well,  I  will  ring  for  lights 
and  coffee  at  once,  and  you  can  go." 

"  You  shall  not  have  your  coffee  earlier  on 
my  account,  sir ;  there  is  plenty  of  time," 
replied  Marguerite,  a  little  ashamed  of  her 
own  anxiety  on  the  subject :  and  she  came 
and  seated  herself  by  Mortimer's  side.  Her 
face  was  very  flushed,  and  she  gazed  long 
and  steadily  in  the  fire. 


144 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"I  feel   to-night,*  she    wont   on,  "some 
unaccountable  weight  upon  me :  something 
almost  warning  me  not  to  go  to  this  party  | 
much  as  1  wish  it.     Shall  I  go,  Mr.  Morti- 
mer ?  " 

"Silly  child!  of  course  you  will  go. 
What  can  happen  to  you  ? — the  horses  are 
as  quiet  as  any  in  England.  You  are  get- 
ting fanciful,  Maggy;  you  do  not  take  exer- 
cise enough.11 

But  Marguerite  could  not  shake  off  her 
fancy,  not  even  when  she  was  dressed  and 
far  on  her  way  to  town.  It  was,  as  she  had 
said,  a  vague  presentiment — not  precisely 
amounting  to  a  foreboding  of  evil,  but  a 
feeling  that  something  was  to  occur  that 
evening  of  no  common  importance.  As  she 

approached  A House,  however,  the  crush 

of  carriages,  the  noise  and  excitement,  took 
her  thoughts  from  herself;  and  when  she  en- 
tered the  brilliantly-decorated  rooms,  amidst 
the  blaze  of  countless  lights  and  the  open 
admiration  of  every  eye  she  met,  no  wonder 
that  all  gloomy  thoughts  vanished  ! 

"  La  belle  Mortimer  never  looked  so 
lovely,11  said  one  knot  of  young  men,  who 
•were  watching  her  entrance. 

"  I  thought  you  were  acquainted  with 
her,"  remarked  a  friend. 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

"  Oh  !  she  never  bowed  to  you  in  passing, 
that  was  all." 

"  She  is  as  capricious  as  other  beauties," 
said  the  h'rst  speaker — a  silly-looking  youth  : 
one  of  the  crowds  whose  attempts  at  idle 
compliments  Marguerite's  quiet  dignity  had 
set  down.  "  Even  the  marquis  is  thrown 
over  sometimes.  At  Lady  Dacre'fl  party, 
her  fancy  was  to  talk  to  some  hideous  little 
author  the  whole  evening.  However,  he 
was  beneath  St.  Leon's  jealousy,  I  suppose." 

*'  St.  Leon  is  Mrs.  Mortimer's  cousin," 
said  a  young  man  who  had  not  yet  s'poken, 
gravely.  "  Of  course  they  are  intimate ! 
lint  little  Grot" — turning  towards  the  youth 
— "  is  always  so  sharp-sighted  when  there  is 
nothing  to  sec.1' 

A  tall  figure  was  standing  close  beside  the 
group,  his  face  turned  away,  but  intently 
listening  to  all  they  said.  When  the  last 
speaker  finished,  they  changed  their  position 
slightly,  so  as  to  be  out  of  hearing;  and  the 
stranger — for  something  about  his  appear- 
ance and  bearing  made  him  look  unlike  the 
Ixnidon  Inihitni-x  of  the  room — moved  on  al- 
*o,  his  e\es  still  following  Marguerite  as  she 
advanced  to  the  graceful  hostess. 

"  Are  yon  engaged  for  the  first  contre- 
dansc,  madaine?  " 

"Gasfon,  you  quite  startle  me,  speaking 
in  such  a  solemn  tone  !  Monsieur,  I  <un  en- 
gaged for  the  first,  but  not  for  the  second." 

"  You  will  promise  it  me,  then?"1 

"Certainly;  but,  cousin,  on  our  usual 
terms — not  to  dance  it !  Even  if  one  eared 
for  dancing,  which  1  do  not,  who  would 


struggle  and  faint  through  such  a  crowd  as 
this,  for  a  mortal  quadrille,  when  they  might 
pass  it  coolly  in  some  dim-lit  conservatory? 
Look  out  for  one,  dear  Gaston — you  know 
what  we  both  like ;  and,  above  all,  one  with 
few  intruders." 

"  She  is  too  open,"  thought  St.  Leon,  as 
he  watched  Marguerite  led  away  by  the 
partner  who  came  to  claim  her ;  "no  woman 
on  earth  ever  made  such  a  remark  as  that 
to  a  man  she  loved  !  And  it  is  better  so — 
far  better!"  he  added,  with  a  half-sigh. 
"  She  is  happy  as  she  is  ;  and  yet,  sometimes, 
her  blushes,  her  faltering  answers — .  Would 
it  were  decided ;  I  cannot  pass  my  life  in 
these  doubts  and  hopes  for  ever." 

Like  most  Frenchmen,  Gaston  had  sma'l 
religious  belief.  No  compunction  as  to  mor- 
ality, or  even  the  ruined  happiness  of  an- 
other, ever  crossed  his  mind  when  his  wish- 
es were  concerned— his  own  passions  to  be 
gratified.  Sensitively  alive  to  honor  (on  all 
points  which  men  of  the  world  have  decided 
to  constitute  it),  he  could  visit,  daily  at  Mor- 
timer's house,  and  receive  his  hospitality, 
with  the  systematic  intention  of  one  day  win- 
ning Marguerite's  love,  and  feel  none  of  the 
conflicting  irresolution — the  agony  of  re- 
morse— which  a  man  like  Earns/'liffe  would 
have  done,  even  although  he  had  not  suffi- 
cient strength  to  fly  from  temptation. 

"  Viola  notre  contredanse,  mon  cousin  !  " 
He  started  as  Marguerite's  gay  voice  arous- 
ed him  from  along  reverie  into  which  he  had 
fallen  —  a  reverie  in  which  his  secretly- 
cherished  hopes  of  coming  into  power  under 
the  new  Imperial  regime  of  France,  and  his 
hopes  with  regard  to  her  were  strangely 
blended.  "  Have  you  forgotten  all  about 
my  request?  You  look  extremely  absent." 

Gaston  offered  her  his  arm  without  reply  ; 
but  when  they  had  left  the  ball-room,  and 
were  passing  through  the  crowded  vestibule, 
he  whispered,  "  1  am  absent,  mada-n — dis- 
trait— miserable;  but  of  all  others,  you  must 
pardon  me." 

"Gaston,  do  not  be  sentimental!"  she 
answered,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  always  tell  you 
that  your  greatest  charm  is  in  being  unaffect- 
ed. It  would  not  suit  you  to  be  poetic  and 
wretched."1 

St.  Leon  led  her  on,  through  one  after 
another  of  the  magnificent  suite  of  rooms  that 
\vere  thrown  open.  "  Will  this  crowd  nev- 
er lessen  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "Iain  sick  of 
so  many  human  faces.'1 

"You  should  have  employed  your  time, 
then,  while  I  was  dancing,  in  finding  out 
some  cool,  undisturbed  spot,  (Jaston,  instead 
of  indulging  your  poetic  fancies." 

44  I  was  thinking  of  you,  madaine  ;  do  not 
blame  me." 

The  abrupt  manner,  the  subdued  tone,  if 
it  ITM  acting,  was  excellent,  and  would  havn 
told  with  the  majority  of  listeners.  But 
.Marguerite  drew  away. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


145 


"We  have  gone  far  enough,  cousin.  It 
is  not  too  warm  here,  let  us  rest  and  admire 
these  lovely  statues." 

'*  You  wished  to  be  among  flowers  and 
moonlight  just  now !  You  are  changeable 
to-night,  madame." 

"  Let  us  go  on,  then  !  "  she  returned,  gen- 
tly, guessing  from  his  face  that  he  was 
offended,  and  too  yielding  ever  to  contest  a 
point;  "  if  you  really  wish  to  be  away  from 
the  crowd.  No  one  seems  to  be  entering 
that  door  on  the  left — shall  we  try  it  ?  " 

The  door  was  closed  ;  but  yielded  to  Gas- 
toi/s  hand,  and  they  went  in.  It  was  a  small 
morning-room  or  boudoir,  that,  although  not 
formally  closed,  had  not  been  included  among 
those  rooms  which  were  to  be  thrown  open : 
a;  d  an  alabaster  hand-lamp,  left,  probably, 
by  accident  on  a  centre  table,  was  the  only 
light.  Gaston  quickly  closed  the  door  before 
any  other  wanderers  in  search  of  quiet  and 
cool  air  had  discovered  their  retreat  or  at- 
tempted to  follow  them ;  and  Marguerite, 
who  otherwise  would  have  hesitated  at  en- 
tering a  room  not  intended  for  guests,  found 
herself  thus  obliged  to  remain,  or  show  too 
plainly  her  unwillingness  at  being  alone  with 
St.  Leon. 

"  Gaston,  this  quiet  and  repose  seem  al- 
most fairy-like,  after  the  lights  and  murmur 
of  voices  we  have  left.  Had  we  better  re- 
main here  ?  the  room  looks  scarcely  intended 
for  strangers." 

*'  You  told  me,  madame,  in  the  ball-room 
to  select  a  spot  free  from  intruders — surely 
this  must  answer  the  description  ?  " 

"  What  a  bright  moon  !  "  remarked  Mar- 
guerite, turning  towards  the  window,  which 
opened  upon  a  balcony  leading  to  the  trellised 
roofs  of  some  conservatories.  "  And  the 
air  does  not  feel  cold,  although  it  is  long  past 
midnight." 

She  stepped  out;  but  hastily  retreated. 

**  Gaston,  some  one  is  here  before  us.  I 
am  sure  I  saw  a  figure  at  the  further  end  of 
the  balcony — a  tall,  slight  figure.  Cousin — 
let  us  retire,  we  may  be  intruders." 

"Let  me  see!"  St.  Leon  answered, 
springing  down  the  steps  which  led  from  the 
window,  and  taking  a  hasty  survey  around, 
then  quickly  returning  to  her  side.  "  You 
were  deceived,  Marguerite,"  he  said,  "I 
have  looked  around,  and  no  one  is  to  be 
seen." 

'*  But  I  am  positive  I  saw  the  figure  of  a 
man." 

"  It  may  have  been  a  servant,  then,"  he 
replied,  carelessly.  "  But,  whoever  it  was, 
is  gone  now.  Corne  in,  Marguerite  !  the  air 
is  too  cold  for  you  to  remain  without." 
>  "The  calm  night  is  so  refreshing!"  she 
answered,  lingering — her  eyes  fixed  dream- 
ily upon  the  dark  gardens  beneath,  as  though 
she  longed  to  pierce  their  shadows. 

St.  Leon  wheeled  a  chair  close  to  the  win- 
dow. "  Sit  here,  then,"  be  said,  "  where 


you  can  feel  the  air  without  being  exposed  to 
it." 

"  Thank  you  ;  that  is  delightful.  And  you, 
cousin  ?  " 

He  seated  himself  on  a  low  ottoman,  al- 
most at  her  feet,  and  looked  up  in  her  face. 

"  Here  is  my  place,  Marguerite  !  " 

"Nonsense,  Gaston!  Only  imagine  any 
one  entering,  and  seeing  you  !  Although  we 
are  cousins,  people  would  think  I  was  a 
coquette — a  character  that  I  am  not  anxious 
to  acquire." 

St.  Leon  rose  in  a  minute.  "  I  wish  I 
could  believe  you  no  coquette,  Marguerite." 

"  Gaston!" 

"  I  repeat  it — I  should  indeed  be  happy 
— wildly — tumultuously  happy,  if  I  believed 
you  were  not  a  coquette." 

"  Cousin  Gaston  !  do  you  know  what  you 
are  talking  about?  " 

"  I  know  too  well,  madame — and  it  is  im- 
possible that  you  do  not  understand  it  also. 
No — you  shall  hear  me !  "  He  caught  her 
hand  as  she  half-rose.  I  have  been  silent  too 
long,  and  I  can  conceal  the  truth  no  more. 
That  truth  which  you  must  have  guessed  a 
thousand  times,  Marguerite — I  love  you  !•" 

"  Love  me  !  "  she  stammered,  turning  very 
pale.  "  Yes,  dear  Gaston — cousinly  love — 
as  a  brother " 

"  No,  madame,  not  as  a  brother.  Je  vous 
aime  "  (the  conversation  was  in  French,  of 
course) — "  je  vous  aime  d'amour." 

The  hand  which  he  held  turned  quite  cold, 
and  he  felt  her  tremble.  "  Gaston,"  she  said 
quickly,  "  1  cannot  remain  here,  now — let 
me  go." 

"  Not  until  you  answer  me,  Marguerite, 
ma  cousine."  Very  gentle  was  his  voice  ;  he 
misunderstood  her  reply,  and  drew  her  near- 
er to  him,  but  she  shrank  away. 

"  Cousin,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  thus,, 
never  recur  to  it  again — let  us  be  friends,  as- 
we  have  been.  I — I " 

"Marguerite,"  he  interrupted,  "tell  me- 
honestly  and  plainly,  with  all  the  truth  ofi 
your  nature,  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"As  a  friend?" 

"  No,  madame  ;  as  a  lover?  " 

"No — a  thousand  times  no."  She  took 
her  hand  away,  and  looked  him  very  full  in; 
the  face. 

"  Then  you  have  trifled  with  me  cruelly — 
trifled  with  me  as  I  could  not  have  believed 
you  capable  of  doing,  with  your  youth,  and 
your  seeming  innocence." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  monsieur!1' 
Even  her  soft  temper  was  aroused  by  his 
bitter  manner,  and  the  sneer  which  accom- 
panied his  last  word.  "How  have  I  ever 
trifled  with  you  ?  " 

"  Marguerite,  can  you  recall  no  time  when 
your  voice  has  suddenly  lowered  as  you  spoke 
to  me — when  your  cheek  has  flushed,  your 
eyes  have  sank  beneath  mine  ?  Have  you 
never  started  at  my  voice  ?  Oh,  Marguer- 


146 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


ite  !  "  he  went  on,  his  tones  growing  low  and 
agitated  with  these  recollections,  "  it  could 
not  all  be  acting.  Speak  ;  tell  me  that  al- 
though I  may  hope  for  nothing  more,  there 
Jiave,  at  least  been  moments  when  you  loved 
me.  Tell  me  only  this  one  word.  Even  now 
you  are  pale,  you  tremble." 

Marguerite's  head  had  sunk  as  she  listened 
to  him,  until  he  could  only  see  the  averted 
line  of  her  profile,  and  her  hands  were 
clasped  together  nervously.  A  sudden  self- 
reproach  shot  through  her  at  Gaston's  words  ; 
and,  in  her  lowliness  of  self-estimation,  she 
at  once  transferred  the  guilt  of  his  love  to 
herself. 

«•  I  have  deceived  him,"  she  thought. 
"  When  the  likeness  to  Philip  has  made  me 
blush  and  tremble  against  my  own  conviction, 
he-  has  thought  it  love  for  him  !  Yet,  how 
can  I  undeceive  him  ?  " 

With  cheeks  now  burning  with  shame,  she 
looked  up  timidly  in  her  cousin's  face.  "  Gas- 
ton,  I  nave  unconsciously  deceived  you,"  she 
whispered:  "  Nay,  do  not  misunderstand 

me — not  as   you   think  I  have Cousin, 

there  is  some  one  without,  I  know  I  heard  a 

step " 

"  No — no,  it  is  nothing.  Go  on,  Mar- 
guerite, all  my  hope*  in  life  hang  upon  your 
next  words !  " 

"  I  have,  Gaston,  never  loved  you;  but, 
early  in  life,"  she  lowered  her  voice,  and 
glanced  hurriedly  towards  the  open  window, 
*'  long  before  I  was  married,  I  parted  with 
one  dear  to  me  ;  one  whom  I  have  never  met 
since,  shall  never  see  again ;  and,  oh,  Gas- 
ton  !  how  must  I  tell  you  ?  there  is  a  like- 
ness in  your  features.  At  times  you  have 

so  reminded  me — and " 

"Madame!"  interrupted  the  marquis, 
with  the  most  frigid  politeness,  "  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  be  so  discountenanced.  It  is  no 
unusual  occurrence.  Most  English  young 
ladies  have  loved  before  they  marry ;  and 
with  me  your  secret — such  as  it  is — is  per- 
fectly safe.  Only,  another  time,  when  you 
may  trace  any  fancied  resemblance  in  one 
of  your  friends  to  this — early  lover,  it  might 
be  well  to  explain  the  circumstance  at  once ; 
before  so  many  blushes,  and  starts,  and  tre- 
mors have  led  him  into  being  the  fool  that  I 
am.  You  have  honored  me  with  your  re- 
gard from  my  likeness  to  another  !  I  thank 
you,  rnadame!  " 

"  Gaston  —  you  are  unjust !  " 
*'  I  have  been  deceived.     You  cannot  en- 
ter into  my  feelings." 

'*  And  I  have  been  wrong— so  wrong," 
h<-r  voice  faltering,  'l  but  let  my  ignorance 
of  the  world  lie  my  excuse.  If  I  could  have 
gue  — ed  in  the  slightest  decree  your  feeling 
towards  me,  cousin,  1  would  have  died  soon- 
er than  mislead  you  Oil  such  a  subject.  1 
have  |i-w  real  friends — no  relation  but  you 
and  now  I  have  offended  you  for  ever.  Oh 
be  generous  enough  to  forgive  me  !  " 

lie   turned    away   with  an  assumption   of 


ndifference  that  ill  accorded  with  his  agitat- 
;d  face,  for  he  was  touched  by  her  artless, 
heading  manner.  "  I  can  never  think  of' 
'ou,  Marguerite,  but  as  an  image  of  every- 
hing  most  sweet  and  lovely ;  but  we  cannot 
continue  friends ;  I  have  hopes  and  ambi- 
ions  in  France,  in  which  I  shall,  doubtless, 
)e  able  to  forget  the  dream  of  the  past  year. 
After  to-night,  we  shall  meet  no  more." 

The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes ;  but  she  was 
silent.  She  could  not  now  ask  him  to  be  her 
riend  still,  or  oppose  his  intention  of  leav- 
ng  England. 

"  Shall  I  conduct  you  to  the  ball-room, 
ma  dame  ?  "  offering  her  his  arm  with  just  his 
isual  manner,  and  seeking  to  banish  from 
n's  voice  all  traces  of  recent  emotion .  "Your 
absence  may  be  noticed ;  and,  I  believe,  I 
am  engaged  for  the  next  dance." 

"  Then  go — pray  go — and  leave  me  here 
until  it  is  all  over.  I  am  so  flushed — so  ag- 
itated yet — it  will  be  well  for  me  to  remain 
quite  alone  for  half  an  hour." 

He  left  her,  without  another  word;  and 
Marguerite  remained  alone — alone  in  her 
beauty,  her  youth,  and  brilliancy,  but  with 
tearful  eyes,  and  a  feverish  weight  about  her 
heart,  more  even  than  her  rejection  of  Gas- 
ton  was  sufficient  to  occasion.  In  hearing 
words  of  love  once  more — although  her  heart 
no  longer  beat  to  them — the  past  seemed  to 
have  arisen  again.  These  long,  cold  years 
of  separation  rolled  away  ;  her  youthful  pas- 
sion, her  glowing  Kersaint  life  returned. 
She  thought  of  the  first  hour  when  her  heart 
acknowledged  its  love  for  Earnscliffe  ;  of  the 
day  when  they  had  parted — the  promises  she 
gave  him  then 

•'  Philip,"  she  murmured,  half  aloud,  **  I 
have  been  true  to  vou — I  have  loved  no  oth- 
er." 

"  Marguerite,"  answered  a  low  voice,  very 
softly,  but  whose  tone  made  her  whole  blood 
rush  -vyildly  to  her  heart. f  She  looked  up, 
and  close  before  her  stood  Earnscliffe. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ON  Jus  arrival  in  London,  Philip  met  with 
a  much  warmer  reception  among  his  old 
friends  than  he  had  Anticipated.  Small  jeal- 
ousies, petty  rivalries,  are  forgotten  in  live 
years;  and,  with  our  natural  pr.meness  to- 
wards the  past,  men  remember  only  the 
brighter  side  of  youthful  friendships,  and  im- 
agine they  were  infinitely  warmer  than  was 
in  reality  the  case. 

He  went  straight  to  his  uncle's  house  when 
he  arrived;  and  the  intense  delight  of  the 
old  man  in  once  more  seeing  his  boy,  re- 
wardrd  Philip  sufficiently  for  his  intention 
of  making  Kngland  henceforth  his  homo. 
Hi  ni  lOOB  overwhelmed  with  invitations, 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


147 


and  the  soft  eyes  of  many  a  young  debutante 
looked  kindly  at  him  wherever  he  appeared. 
For  he  was  now  again  eligible — the  heir  to 
Miles's  not  inconsiderable  property  (which 
the  old  man's  good  management  and  econom- 
ical habits  had  greatly  increased  since  the 
time  of  his  failure)  ;  and,  last  of  all,  hand- 
somer than  ever,  and  with  just  such  an 
amount  of  scandal  connected  with  his  name 
as  serves  to  give  additional  interest  to  a  man 
in  the  eyes  of  young  ladies. 

He  never  thought  of  meeting  Marguerite. 
The  name  of  her  husband  had  escaped  from 
his  memory,  or  whether  they  ever  lived  in 
London  ;  and  when  he  heard  the  perfections 
of  the  lovely  Mrs.  Mortimer  described,  he 
little  knew  they  spoke  of  Marguerite. 

"  She  is  as  lovely  as  an  angel,  and  as 
faultless,11  said  one  of  his  friends;  «•  far  too 
excellent  for  my  taste  !  However,  you  will 

see  her  at  A House  this  evening,  and 

you  can  judge  for  yourself;  perhaps  she  may 
be  in  vour  style." 

"  As  I  do  not  know  what  that  is,  I  cannot 
answer.  I  generally  look  devoutly  at  every 
fair  face  I  meet,  and  forget  it  in  five  minutes. 
At  my  age,  men  are  past  enthusiasm  about 
beauty." 

When  Marguerite  entered  the  salons  of 

the  Comtesse  de  P that  evening,  amidst 

the  murmurs  that  her  appearance  always  ex- 
cited, Earnscliffe  saw  and  recognised  her  in 
a  moment.  His  astonishment  may  be  con- 
ceived on  meeting  Marguerite  St.  John  in 
the  celebrated  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  behold- 
ing into  what  glorious  beauty  her  girlish 
promise  had  ripened;  and  an  emotion,  of 
which  an  hour  before  he  would  not  have  be- 
lieved himself  capable,  smote  his  heart  as  he 
thought  of  all  he  had  once  been  to  her ;  and 
how  completely  the  world  and  her  success 
must  now  have  effaced  him  from  her  memo- 
ry. He  observed  her  meeting  with  St.  Le- 
on ;  and,  in  her  free,  unconstrained  manner, 
saw  that  there,  at  least,  he  had  no  rival,  al- 
though, with  the  jealous  quickness  of  a  lov- 
er, he  read,  at  once,  on  the  face  of  the  mar- 
quis, that  his  were  more  than  ordinary  at- 
tentions which  every  one  pays  to  a  lovely 
woman. 

"  She  may  not  care  for  Tiim"  thought 
Philip;  "  but  to  how  much  devotion  like  his 
must  she  have  been  exposed  !  Fair  though 
her  fame  is,  among  all  the  men  in  London 
who  are  at  her  feet,  is  it  possible  that  no 
new  fancy  may  have  sullied  the  old  love  ?  " 

He  had  next  to  watch  Marguerite  as  she 
danced  with  some  young  Austrian  officer,  to 
whom  she  had  just  been  introduced,  and  to 
mark  her  smiling,  animated  manner  during 
the  whole  quadrille.  Then  to  see  St.  Leon 
approach  her  again,  and  Marguerite  take  his 
arm,  with  an  air  of  the  most  complete  inti- 
ma'cy,  laughing  merrily  as  she  told  him  of 
his  solemn  manner. 

*'  She  has  become  a  coquette — she  is  like 
all  other  women,  now  ! "  thought  Earnscliffe 


fiercely.  "  How  I  detest  this  hot  throng  of 
people ;"  and  he  walked  away  from  the  ball  » 
room,  and  from  Marguerite.  Chance  led 
him  to  the  boudoir  already  mentioned  :  and 
the  fresh,  bright  night  tempted  him  into  the 
garden  without,  where  he  paced  hurriedly 
up  and  down,  thinking  over  this  sudden 
meeting  with  his  old  love,  and  the  ^motions 
that  the  sight  of  her  awakened.  "  I  laugh- 
ed at  it  all  this  morning,"  he  thought,  "  and 
said  that  men  of  my  age  could  not  feel  the 
passion  of  boys;  yet,  my  heart  has  beat 
more  wildly  at  meeting  Marguerite,  than  it 
did  years  ago  when  she  first  said  she  loved 
me ;  more  than  hers  would  now,  I  imagine, 
on  seeing  me.  Our  characters  are  changed 
from  what  they  were  in  the  Kersaint  days ! 
Marguerite  is  a  woman  of  the  world ;  and  I 
shrink  and  tremble — but  this  is  folly."  Ho 
stopped  short  in  his  walk,  and  turned  again 
towards  the  house.  "  I  will  return,  and  ask 
to  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Mortimer.  If  she 
treats  me  as  an  ordinary  acquaintance,  or 
feigns  altogether  to  forget  old  times — let,  it 
be  so !  I  will  not  wound  her  pride  or  dis- 
turb her  composure  by  recalling  them." 

So  he  retraced  his  steps,  and  was  about 
to  enter  the  window,  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  voices  in  low,  eager  conversation  ; 
and  paused,  as  one  instinctively  does  on  im- 
terrupting  an  interview  of  this  nature.  His 
first  thought  was  to  withdraw  as  he  came, 
and  find  another  entrance  to  the  house ;  but 
as  he  noiselessly  turned  with  this  intention, 
he  caught  the  agitated  words  of  Marguerite, 
— "  Gaston,  I  have  unwillingly  deceived 
you ;  "  and  he  knew  in  a  second  that  it  was 
her  voice. 

Fastidious  almost  to  a  fault,  on  smaller 
points  of  honor,  Earnscliffe  would  not  have 
stooped  to  listen  even  had  his  own  dearest 
interest  been  concerned ;  but  he  was  literal- 
ly so  spell-bound  by  Marguerite's  voice,  that 
it  was  some  minutes  before  he  could  reflect 
upon  his  position,  and  that  he  was  overhear- 
ing a  conversation  not  intended  for  other 
ears.  And  in  that  time  he  had  learnt  all — 
her  rejection  of  Gaston — the  meek  acknowl- 
edgment of  her  old  girlish  love — the  half 
confession  that  that  love  still  lingered. 

"Unchanged!"  he  thought.  "And  still 
so  gentle — so  utterly  distrustful  of  herself. 
Oh,  Marguerite,  that  I  could  claim  you  for 
my  own  at  last !  " 

He  waited  until  St.  Leon  had  gone,  then, 
silently  advanced  and  gazed  on  her  subdued 
mournful  attitude  —  her  drooping  head ; 
scarcely  breathing,  lest  the  sound  should  dis- 
turb her.  But  when  he  heard  his  name  on 
her  lips,  he  could  remain  silent  no  longer. 

"  Marguerite!" 

She  looked  up — she  knew  him.  To  his 
last  hour  that  expression  of  her  face  will  nev- 
er fade  from  EarnsclifiVs  memory.  Delight 
— pure,  passionate  delight — like  that  of  a 
mother's  welcoming  back  the  child  she  had 
believed  dead  to  her,  shone  in  every  feature. 


148 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


She  clasped  his  hands — looked  up  into  his 
face  with  the  eager  gaze  of  one  recalling 
every  .line  of  the  well-known  features.  *'  Phil- 
ip !  'Philip!11 

He  was  the  first  to  recall  anything  of  the 
present  to  her  mind ;  and  Marguerite  un- 
clasped his  hands  and  drew  slightly  back. 

"  It  is  so  sudden,1'  she  said,  faintly.  "  For- 
give me.  I  forgot  everything — but  seeing 
you  again — imagine  my  surprise — " 

"  Imagine  mine — on  discovering  that  the 
celebrated  beauty  of  all  London  was  Mar- 
guerite St.  John.11 

Both  spoke  somewhat  abruptly,  and  with 
the  hurried  intonation  of  deep  excitement ; 
then,  after  a  few  seconds,  they  began  to 
•peak  on  indifferent  subjects — as  those  al- 
ways speak  who  meet  like  this,  yet  dare  not 
give  expression  to  their  real  thoughts.  Mar- 
guerite asked  how  long  he  had  been  in  Eng- 
land ? — Earnscliffe  inquired  politely  after  her 
husband.  But,  even  as  they  spcke,  the  eyes 
of  each  sought  the  other ;  each  felt  that,  un- 
der that  assumed  calm,  lay  words  of  pas- 
sionate joy  at  meeting — thoughts  of  that  ten- 
der past  which  every  look  and  word  recall- 
ed. 

"  You  are  so  changed,  Phil — Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe/1 

14  Yet  you  knew  me  instantly." 

"I  knew  your  voice;  but,  of  course,  7 
should  have  recognised  you  anywhere — at  any 
time.  You  look  older,  Philip11  (his  name 
would  come)  ;  "  scarcely  so  grave,  though, 
as  you  used  to  be.  Ah !  you  were  so  pale 
when — when  I  last  parted  from  you/1 

"I  am  only  outwardly  changed,  Mrs. 
Mortimer/1 

"  Only  outwardly  changed  !  "  Sh^  looked 
up  into  his  face  as  he  bent  towards  her,  and 
thought  till  this  moment  she  had  never  seen 
the  perfection  of  human  expression  before. 
How  could  she  ever  have  called  Gaston  like 
bim? — Gaston  —  Mr.  Mortimer.  With  a 
sudden  flash  of  thought,  Marguerite  remem- 
bered her  husband,  her  home,  and  her 
gloomy  forebodings  of  that  evening  before 
ehe  started,  and  all  the  brightness  of  her 
dream  faded. 

"It  is  getting  late,"  she  hesitated.  "I 
think  I  shall  soon  leave/' 

"So  soon  ?  After  five  years  of  separation, 
can  you  not  spare  me  one  half  hour?  Airs. 
Mortimer,  I  have  much  to  hear/1 

"  Perhaps/1  hesitating  still  more,  "  you 
would  call  upon  us.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Mortimer 
would  be  glad  to  see  you,  and " 

"And  you?  Do  you  really  wish  me  to 
come  ?  " 

"  Oli,  Philip  !    can  you  ask  ?" 

Tin-  caressing  tone  and  quirk,  upward 
look  wen-  so  exactly  Marguerite,  in  her  old 
girlish  days,  that  Karnscliffe  almost  started. 
iler  manner,  had  of  <-our.se,  acquired  .some- 
thing »»f  the  conventional  tone  of  the  world; 
but  at  this  moment  she  looked  as  childlike  us 


on  the  first  morning  when  she  ran  beside  him 
on  the  sea-shore. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  remember  to  call  you 
by  your  new  name  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  they 
returned  towards  the  ball-room  ;  and  Mar- 
guerite's cheeks  were  yet  glowing  with  the 
blush  this  remark  called  forth  when  they  en- 
tered. 

St.  Leon  saw  them  instantly.  He  was  not 
dancing — indeed  his  engagement  had  been 
only  a  pretext  for  leaving  her — but  was  stand- 
ing alone,  moodily  thinking  over  the  bloM" 
his  vanity,  and  such  love  as  he  was  capable 
of,  had  received.  A  fierce  pang  of  jealousy 
shot  through  him  when  he  saw  Philip. 

"  Who  is  that  stranger  with  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer ? "  he  asked  of  an  acquaintance  near 
him. 

"  The  little  man  with  red  hair,  that  she  is 
speaking  to  ?  ?' 

"  Bah  !   the  man  on  whose  arm  she  leans/' 

"That?  eh,  mon  cher !  is  it  possible  you 
do  not  recognise  Earnscliffe  the  writer — just 
returned  from  the  East?  Mrs.  Mortimer 
looks  more  animated  than  usual.  It  is  not 
often  celebrities  take  to  each  other  so  well !  " 

Gaston  moved  impatiently  away  ;  he  guess- 
ed, by  one  of  those  intuitions  peculiar  to  per- 
sons of  his  subtle  nature,  that  he  was  looking 
at  Marguerite's  old  lover ;  guessed  it  by 
Philip's  quiet  manner — by  her  face  ;  and  he 
saw,  with  fresh  bitterness,  the  error  into  which 
he  had  fallen  in  believing  that  Marguerite 
loved  him. 

"  She  loves  him  still,"  he  thought. 
"  Poor  little  fool !  and  will  call  it  friendship. 
Celui  la  me  venger  de  son  indifference  ! " 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

IT  was  very  late  when  Marguerite  reached 
home,  and  the  few  hours  intervening  between 
her  arrival  and  Mortimer's  early  breakfast 
were  spent,  not  in  sleep,  but  in  agitated  rev- 
eries over  meeting  with  Philip,  and  anxious 
endeavors  to  form  some  right  plan  for  the 
future.  She  would  tell  her  husband,  at  all 
events;  her  truthful  nature  forbade  conceal- 
ment for  a  second.  "  Mr.  Mortimer  under- 
stands the  world  better  than  I  do/'  sho 
thought.  "  lie  will  decide  upon  what  terms 
I  ought  to  meet  Philip  now — how  great 
should  be  our  intimacy/1  Marguerite  knew 
not  that,  after  all  that  was  past,  she  had  but 
one  safeguard — -to  see  him  no  more. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  your  ball  as  much  as  you 
expected.  Marguerite?"  said  Mortimer  at 
the  breakfast  -table,  glancing  up  from  the 
newspaper.  "  Lord,  child,  how  pale  you 
look  !  1  shall  be  glad  when  all  these  dissi- 
pations an-  over,  and  1  can  take  you  off 
quietly  to  the  sea-side." 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


149 


44 1  am  more  tired  than  usual  to-day; 
there  was  so  much  excitement  last  night,  I 
mean."  She  grew  nervous,  and  began  to 
stir  her  untasted  coffee.  44  I  met " 

Mortimer,  however,  was  not  listening. 
He  was  particularly  engaged  in  reading  the 
City  article,  and,  much  as  he  loved  Margue- 
rite's voice,  would  just  as  soon  it  had  been 
silent  at  that  moment. 

44  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  sir !  "  with 
sudden  energy. 

"Indeed,  my  dear!"  very  unwillingly 
looking  up  from  his  paper,  and  keeping  his 
forefinger  on  the  spot  where  he  left  off. 
44  What  do  you  want  now,  little  wife  ?  wasn't 
your  dress  fine  enough  ?  " 

Something  in  his  manner  so  utterly  forbade 
the  delicate  confidence  she  was  about  to 
make,  that  all  Marguerite's  courage  forsook 
her,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said,  she 
turned  abruptly  to  another  subject. 

44  Cousin  Gaston  is  going  to  France,  Mr. 
Mortimer." 

44  The  best  place  for  him,  too.  He  has 
been  discontented  and  out  of  humor  for 
months  past.  He  will  get  into  place  under 
the  Emperor,  no  doubt,  staunch  loyalist 
though  he  used  to  be :  a  Frenchman's  poli- 
tics can  always  turn  round  at  a  day's  notice. 
When  is  he  coming  to  say  good-bye?  " 

44 1  don't  know  sir — perhaps  not  at  all ;  I 
said  something  to  him  last  night  which  he  did 
not  like,  I  am  afraid."  Marguerite  quite  re- 
gained her  composure  in  speaking  of  Gaston. 

44  Um  !  lean  imagine  what /it  was.  He 
has  been  hovering  about  you  too  long,  even 
for  a  cousin.  These  young  Frenchmen  have 
not  our  feelings  upon  honor  and  good  faith. 
Is  this  the  news,  then  ?  Cousin  Gaston's  de- 
parture ?  " 

With  a  burning  blush,  Marguerite  forced 
herself  at  length  to  bring  out  Philip's  name. 
44  She  had  met  an  old  friend — a  friend  of 
her  father's — Mr.  Earnscliffe,  the  author," 

44  Indeed,  child  !  I  never  knew  your  father 
had  any  English  friends  since  you  were  born. 
However,  I  am  glad  you  have  met  some  one 
to  talk  over  old  times  with.  Just  let  me 
finish  my  City  news,  and  you  shall  tell  me 
all  about  him." 

The  utter  unsuspicion  of  her  husband 
made  Marguerite's  task  more  difficult  to  per- 
form. She  sat  watching  his  face  as  he  read, 
and  wondering  how,  with  his  strict,  almost 
stern  ideas  upon  such  points,  he  would  re- 
ceive the  intelligence  that,  years  ago,  as  a 
mere  child,  his  wife  had  had  a  lover — a  mar- 
ried man.  too,  even  then — and  that  she  had 
now  met  him  again  in  the  world  ! 

44  Sadbrook  Brothers,  by  Jove  !  "  exclaim- 
ed Mortimer,  with  a  vigorous  descent  of  his 
large  hand  upon  the  table,  which  made  the 
Sevres  breakfast-service  start  from  its  aristo- 
cratic composure.  4t  I  said  it — I  knew  it — 
for  days  past,  and  no  one  believed  me ! 
Gone — aye !  to  everlasting  smash  !  They 
will  not  pay  a  shilling  in  the  pound,  and  I 


was  fool  enough  to  keep  one  of  their  bills, 
against  my  own  conviction.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Marguerite,  but  I  must  start  for 
town  at  once.  Thank  God !  it's  only  for  a 

thousand  pounds  ;  but  poor  M s  will  be 

let  in  for  half  he  is  worth.  Ring  the  bell, 
my  dear ;  don't  you  see  I  am  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

Marguerite  shrank  aside  as  Mortimer,  his 
red  face  all  flurried  with  the  news  of  Messrs. 
Shadbrook  Brothers'  failure,  bustled  from  the 
room.  He  forgot  to  say  good-bye  to  her 
even,  in  his  excitement;  and  five  minutes 
afterwards  she  heard  the  carriage  roll  off  that 
took  him  to  the  City. 

And  so  ended  her  attempted  confidence 
respecting  her  old  lover.  She  had  not  the 
courage  to  attempt  the  subject  again .  And 
Mortimer  never  knew  how  far  more  impor- 
tant to  him  were  the  trembling  words  that 
hung  impending  on  Marguerite's  lips  that 
morning  than  any  City  failure  could  have 
been,  even  though  it  involved  the  loss  of  a 
thousand-pound  bill ! 

Earnscliffe's  last  words,  the  night  before, 
were — 44  Then,  to-morrow,  I  may  call,  if  you 
will  allow  it ;  "  and  Marguerite  passed  all  the 
forenoon  in  a  feverish,  unsettled  state  of  ex- 
citement, expecting  him  ;  half  regretting,  at 
one  moment,  that  she  had  not  spoken  to 
Mortimer ;  then  glad,  poor  child !  that  she 
had  been  silent — that  once,  at  least,  she  was 
to  have  the  exquisite  happiness  of  being 
again  with  Philip 

Philip  was  shown  into  Marguerite's  morn- 
ing-room, where  she  usually  received  visitors, 
and.  after  a  few  minutes'  pause,  to  recover 
her  composure,  she  joined  him. 

She  shook  hands  with  him  in  silence ;  then 
seated  herself  at  some  distance,  her  face 
turned  aside,  her  hands  clasped  together  in 
just  her  old  timid  gesture.  Once  more  with 
him  she  felt  that  all  her  acquired  manner  of 
society  vanished ;  she  was  exactly  as  she  had 
been  at  sixteen.  44 1  have  watched  for  you 

all  the  morning — I  mean — I "  stopping 

suddenly  short  as  she  recollected  how  she 
was  betraying  herself. 

44  This  room  looks  so  like  you!"  said 
Earnscliffe,  pitying  her  evident  embarrass- 
ment: 4t  the  books,  the  flowers,  the  absence 
of  all  those  artificial  nothings  with  which 
most  women  think  it  necessary  to  be  sur- 
rounded. I  could  fancy  myself  at  Ker- 
saint." 

44 Ah!  but  this  is  not  my  room.  There 
I  have  indeed  all  the  dear  old  books  from 
home;  this  is  called  my  morn  ing- room,  but  I 
receive  visitors  here.  1  could  see  no  strang- 
er in  my  room." 

44  Then  I  shall  not  be  admitted?  " 

44  Yes,  I  should  like  you  to  see  my  father's 
books.  You  are  not  a  stranger,  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe." 

44  Nearly  so ;  after  five  years,  old  recollec- 
tions are  as  nothing  with  most  people.  Those 
only  who  possess  a  peculiarly  happy  organi- 
zation can  forget." 


ISO 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


**  Happy  !  "  she  turned  her  full  gaze  on  his 
face.  "Happy!  my  life  would  be  utterly 
barren  if  there  were  no  past." 

"  In  the  world — in  society — who  thinks  of 
it?" 

*'  In  the  world — in  society?  But  that  out 
of  one's  existence  ?  In  the  early  morning — 
of  a  summer's  evening — of  a  winter's  night — 
oh,  Philip !  in  all  the  times  that  make  up  our 
real  life,  the  past  is  everything.  It  is  the 
poetry  of  the  present." 

"To  old  people  it  may  be  so ;  but  with 
the  young,  all  golden  dreams  lie  in  the  fu- 
ture." 

"  Ah  !  I  spoke  only  for  myself,"  returned 
Marguerite,  sadly.  "  I  never  look  onward." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  ;  then  Mar- 
guerite resumed.  "  Will  you  let  me  show 
you  my  garden  ?  There  is  one  part  of  it  I 
should  like  you  to  see,  although  it  is  too  ear- 
ly in  the  season  for  it  to  look  perfection." 

She  rose,  and  opened  the  door  of  a  glass 
alcove,  leading  into  an  immense  conservatory, 
•where  tier  rose  above  tier  of  the  rarest  hot- 
house plants — all  grouped  and  arranged  by  one 
of  the  first  gardeners  in  England.  She  then  led 
him  through  a  winding  path  for  some  yards ; 
and,  turning  round,  said — "  This  is  my  mini- 
ature of  the  forest  lake  at  home,  where  the 
water-lilies  grew.  Do  you  remember  it,  or 
see  any  resemblance  ?  " 

It  was  a  clear  pool  of  water,  artificial,  of 
course,  but  natural  enough  in  appearance — 
ferns  and  water-plants  were  planted  round  it, 
all  of  the  same  kinds  as  really  grew  in  Brit- 
tany ;  and  a  profusion  of  water-lilies,  not 
yet  in  flower,  floated  on  the  surface. 

"  I  remember  well,"  said  Philip ;  "it  was 
our  first  walk  together." 

Oh  !  dangerous  conversations,  when  every 
sentence  commences  with,  "  I  remember  !" 
They  stayed  long  by  the  little  lake,  talking 
of  old  days,  old  scenes — but  both  tacitly 
avoiding  all  allusions  to  their  last  parting,  or 
anything  that  had  happened  since  then. 

"  Poor  Bello  was  with  us  that  day  by  the 
lake  !  "  said  Marguerite.  "  I  fancy  now  that 
I  can  see  him  darting  off  into  the  forest  for 
game.  Do  you  recollect  him  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well ;  is  he  still  living?  " 

"No;  he  died  about  a  year  ago.  I 
grieved  for  his  death  more  than  I  should 
have  thought  it  possible  to  grieve  for  an  ani- 
mal. But  then  lit-  was  all  that  remained  to 
me  of  my  home ;  and  he  was  so  faithfully  at- 
tached to  me,  up  to  the  very  last." 

"And  your  home — Kersaint — who  has  it 
now  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Mortimer  would  not  let  it  be  sold, 
when  he  saw  how  much  I  cared  for  if.  Man- 
on  lives  there  with  poor,  half-witted  Bruno. 
She  writes  mi-  a  strange,  letter  twice  a  year, 
quite  her  own  style  and  orthography,  but 
lull  of  affect  ion  and  all  the  .simple  new-;  tlial 
tihe  knows  I  can-  for — about  the  peasants  ami 
the  garden.  V.-;  K.-r-aint  is  still  mine.  We 
have  often  talked  of  making  an  excursion 


there  ;  and  I  do  think  this  summer  Mr.  Mor- 
timer will  take  me.  Poor  Manon  !  can  you 
not  imagine  her  wild  delight?  but  you  look 
so  very  thoughtful,  Mr.  Earnscliffe  ;*  what  are 
you  dreaming  about?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  what  a  happy  man  your 
husband  must  be  ;  able  to  forestall  every  wish 
of  yours,  and  read  the  pleasure  in  your  face 
for  his  reward  !  " 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Mortimer  is  happy,"  she 
answered  ;  "  most  kind  and  generous,  I  know 
that  he  is.  But  tell  me  " — seeing  the  clouded 
expression  still  upon  his  face — "  does  this 
mimic  lake  really  remind  you  of  our  forests 
—of  Brittany  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  am  only  too  much  reminded," 
said  Philip,  "  of  things  it  would  be  far  bet- 
ter to  forget." 

"  Yet.  you  have  seen  so  much  since,  I 
wonder  that  you  can  have  such  a  good  recol- 
lection of  poor  Kersaint.  You  have  been 
everywhere  —  Vienna,  Rome,  Jerusalem, 
Thebes — while  I  have  seen  nothing  but  Lon- 
don, and  a  few  watering-places  all  these  years. 
Which  place — I  mean  which  city — that  you 
have  visited,  would  you  like  to  live  in 
best?" 

"  Rome.  At  least  it  suited  my  mood  best 
at  that  time  ;  and  my  friend  Neville  was  with 
me  there.  But,"  added  Philip,  looking 
steadily  at  her,  "  my  recollections  of  Rome 
are  bitter  ones ;  for  it  was  at  Rome  I  first 
heard  of  your  marriage  !  " 

Marguerite  turned  away,  and  plucked  tiny 
pieces  from  the  grass  beside  her  very  quickly. 
"  You  must  have  been  surprised,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  was  very  soon,  that  was  all.  I  ex- 
pected it  would  be  so,  after  a  lapse  of  time  ; 
but  it  was  soon.  Marguerite." 

"I — I — should  have  written;  but  I  did 
not  know  where  to  send  my  letter.  I  did  not 
want  you  to  hear  of  it  first  through  the 
papers,  without  any  explanation.  I  should 
have  liked  you  to  know  all  the  circumstances, 
and  how  very  unhappy  the  life  was  that  I 
left,  when  I  married*!" 

"You  acted  perfectly  wisely,  of  course. 
My  feelings,  I  confess,  were  intensely  selfish 
ones.  I  ought  to  have  been  glad  to  hear  that 
you  had  again  a  home  and  protector,  but  I 
could  not  feel  so.  As  I  said,  my  recollec- 
tions of  Rome  are  bitter  ones!  In  ten  days 
after  hearing  of  your  marriage,  I  left  it  for 
ever.11 

"For  ever!  shall  you  not,  at  some  future 
time,  return  to  Italy?  I  cannot  imagine  your 
living  long  in  Kngland." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  imagine  myself  living 
long  anywhere.  I  am  so  accustomed  to 

change  ami  unquiet  that However,  1  shall 

now  have  dillerent  objects  in  Kil^laml  to  those 
that  1  have  had  In-fore.  Perhaps,  they  may 
fill  the  void  of  life  better  than  any  of  the, 
Inrmer  ones  !  " 

"  Do  you  care  much  for  going  to  the  opera 
now  ?  Oh  !  how  you  used  to  tell  me  about 


PHILTP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


151 


it,  and  how  vainly  T  tried  to  picture  it  all.  It 
is  my  greatest  amusement,  my  real  pleasure.*' 

"  Then  I  am  sure  I  shall  care  for  it,"  an- 
swered Philip.  "  But  I  have  forgotten  all 
about  operas,  of  late  years.  Do  you  re- 
member how  I  told  you  once  that  your  voice 
only  wanted  cultivation,  to  be  the  first  in 
England?  I  was  right,  you  see;  I  have 
heard  of  your  renown." 

**  Yes — I  sing  well,  I  know ;  but  my  singing 
does  not  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  when 
I  could  not  tell  a  note,  and  sang  only  wild 
ballads  to  my  father " 

**  And  to  me.  I  remember  well  the  first 
evening  I  ever  heard  you  sing  to  the  guitar — 
•with  the  sunset  falling  on  your  face  through 
the  open  window,  and  I  thought  it  was  the 
face  of  the  Madonna,  out  of  some  old  paint- 
ing. Have  you  quite  forgotten  ?  " 

•*  And  how  you  stole  away  afterwards,  and 
I  watched  you  pacing  up  and  down  the  ter- 
race, in  the  twilight.  Generally,  I  ran  after 
you  myself,  I  remember,  in  those  long  sum- 
mer evenings.  Oh!  Mr.  Earnscliffe,  what 
must  you  have  thought  ?  I  was  so  very  free 
in  manner ;  so  very  different  to  what  I  now 
know  is  correct  for  young  ladies  to  be." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  thought?  " 

"No,  no;  it  would  only  be  a  compli- 
ment," 

"  Of  which  you  hear  so  many,  that  you  are 
tired?" 

"  Of  them,  and  the  people  that  pay  them 
too.  It  is  so  delightful  to  speak  again  to 
some  one  who  is  a  real  friend,  and  with  whom 
one  can  talk  of  subjects  of  greater  interest 
than  people  and  parties,  and  all  the  repeated 
nothings  which  form  common  conversation." 

"  But,  surely,  you  have  some  friends  who 
do  not  come  under  such  general  denuncia- 
tion?" 

"  None  ;  with  perhaps  one  exception,  that 
I  can  call  a  friend." 

"  And  that  exception  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  Lady  Millicent  Gore  cares 
for  me  more  than  any  one  else." 

**  And  the  marquis  de  St  Leon  ?  " 

•'  Cousin  Gaston?  Oh,  yes;  he  and  I 
were  great  friends.  But  he  is  not  like  you  ; 
he  is  conventional,  and  never  can  see  things 
quite  as  I  do.  Still,  I  have  liked  Gaston ; 
the  tie  of  relationship  is  something  in  itself, 
and  it  was  so  unexpected  to  meet  with  a  re- 
lation of  my  mother's,  that  my  heart  warmed 
towards  him  from  the  first.  But  he  is  leaving 
England  for  good,  now  ;  and " 

"  You  will  miss  him  extremely,  I  suppose, 
Mrs.  Mortimer?  " 

"No — I  mean  it  is  better  Gaston  should 

go — that  is Mr.  Earnscliffe  !  an  idea  is 

flashing  upon  me."  Marguerite's  cheek  be- 
came crimson,  and  a  whole  forest  of  tiny  leaves 
were  soon  lying  upon  her  white  dress.  "Last 
night,  when  you  found  me  alone — had  you 
heard  ? — did  you  hear  Gaston's  voice  ?  " 

"Most  unwillingly,"  replied  Philip,  "I 
confess  that  I  heard  some  of  a  conversation 


not  intended  for  other  ears.  Something  1 
heard  before  I  had  time  to  withdraw ;  then, 
I  caught  the  tone  of  your  voice,  and  forgot 
everything  else  in  listening  to  that  again  !  " 

"And  you  heard ,  tell  me!  I  would 

rather  know  ! "  cried  Marguerite,  in  her  gen- 
erosity only  thinking  of  Gaston's  secret; 
"  tell  me  what  you  heard  him  say." 

"  I  scarcely  heard  the  voice  of  your  com- 
panion, and  have  not  the  faintest  recollection 
of  his  words.  I  thought  but  of  your  voice.'5 

"  That  is  right.  Gaston  would  not  have 
liked  a  stranger  to  hear  what  he  was  saying. 
His  political  career  in  France  is  just  opening, 
and  we  were  talking  of  things  important  to 
him,  and " 

"  Not  to  you?" 

She  looked  up  quickly,  and  saw  from  the 
expression  of  his  face  that  he  had  heard 
enough  to  guess  the  nature  of  their  interview ; 
and  her  eyes  sank  with  shame  as  she  recol- 
lected that  her  own  last  words  contained  the 
confession  of  her  former  love. 

"  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it,"  she  stam- 
mered. "  Let  us  speak  of  something  else." 

How  lovely  she  looked  at  this  moment; 
resting  in  an  attitude  of  the  most  excessive 
grace  upon  the  turf-bank  where  they  were 
sitting  together — her  face  turned  half-aside, 
her  eyes  downcast,  unconsciously  pulling  to 
pieces  the  petals  of  some  dasies  that  she  had 
plucked. 

"Your  own  flower,  wild-Marguerite .  Will 
you  not  give  me  one  now,  as  you  used  to  do 
in  bygone  times  ?  " 

"No,  I  was  a  child  then.  Children  may 
give  or  say  anything.  I  will  give  you  this 
piece  of  jessamine,"  taking  it  from  her  waist- 
belt;  "  and  it  is  a  very  early  and  rare  kind, 
and  much  better  worth  having  than  my  poor 
namesake.  But  I  must  confess  I  prefer  all 
wild  flowers,  however  common." 

"  Do  you  remember  our  lesson  in  bouquet- 
making  ?  "  said  Philip,  approaching  nearer  to 
receive  the  flower,  "  that  bright  May  morn- 
ing? and  how  you  told  me " 

And  so  on,  with  those  endless  recollections 
and  replies — so  tiring  for  other  people — so 
interesting  to  those  concerned — until  the  sun 
warned  Marguerite  that  the  afternoon  was 
quickly  passing. 

"  I  must  show  you  the  library  and  the  old 
books."  she  cried,  as  she  rose ;  I  had  no 
idea  the  time  had  passed  so  quickly." 

"  And  I  have  kept  you  out  in  this  cold  east 
wind,"  replied  Philip*  as  they  walked  slowly 
towards  the  house."  You  are  much  too  thin- 
ly clad  for  our  wretched  English  spring." 

"  I  never  wear  a  bonnet.  It  was  part  of 
my  education,  you  must  remember,  to  brave 
all  weathers ;  and  England  has  a  better  cli- 
mate than  Brittany " 

By  comparison,  perhaps.  I  hate  all  these 
northern  climates,  after  the  warm  south, 
where  every  breath  one  draws  is  an  actual 
enjoyment,  and  life  flows  on  so  sweetly  one 
does  not  know  that  it  is  indeed  passing." 


152 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"  Yet  you  have  left  this  delicious  cli- 
mate ?  ''  observed  Marguerite,  smiling. 

44  I  was  alone  in  Italy,  Mrs.  Mortimer;  I 
rather  spoke  of  what  life  might  be  there, 
than  of  what  mine  actually  was.  Alone,  ex- 
istence is  much  the  same  everywhere." 

Marguerite  did  not  answer ;  and  entering 
the  house  together  she  led  Earnscliffe  up- 
stairs into  her  little  library.  The  oak  pannel- 
ing — the  plain  book-shelves — all  were  in  ex- 
act imitation  of  her  father's  library  at  Ker- 
saint;  and  his  own  books,  with  a  few  of 
Marguerite's  favorites  were  on  the  shelves. 

44  In  this  room  my  in-door  life  is  passed," 
she  said.  4il  read  here  for  hours  every  day. 
Take  this  seat — no — not  where  you  can  look 
out  and  see  the  difference  between  Wimble- 
don Common  and  the  green  sea  at  home — 
but  here  turned  towards  the  fireplace — and 
now,  fancy  yourself  at  Kersaint !  " 

"May  I,  indeed,  do  so?"  was  Philip's 
reply,  and  the  blood  rose  crimson  in  Mar- 
guerite's cheek  at  the  tone.  It  was  in  the 
library  she  had  told  him  that,  whatever  hap- 
pened, she  would  never  love  any  other  but 
him ;  and  she  felt  that  the  whole  scene  must 
return  upon  his  recollection. 

44  I  did    not   mean Oh,  Philip!   I  can 

keep  up  this  appearance  no  longer,"  she  ex- 
claimed, passionately.  44  Let  us  speak  once 
of  old  days,  and  then,  be  silent  for  ever ! 
Remember  how  young  1  was — how  ignorant 
of  the  world ! " 

44  Marguerite,"  interrupted  Philip,  rising 
and  taking  her  hand,  his  own  trembling  as  it 
met  hers ;  44  do  not  speak  as  though  the  past 
contained  anything  you  could  wish  forgotten. 
If  there  was  wrong,  is  was  my  own  :  if  there 
should  be  a  remorse,  it  is  for 'me.  You  have 
always  been  as  you  are  now — most  blameless." 

"But  Philip,  hear  me;  for  this  once  I 
must  speak.  You  know  how — then — I  loved 
you,"  the  words  came  reluctantly  from  her  I 
lips,  *'  and  when  we  talk  so  much  of  old  times, 
it  recalls  old  feelings  to  my  heart,  that  should  \ 
have  died  long  ago ;  and  it  is  wrong,  for  I 
am  married  now — married  to  one  whom  I  re- 
spect more  than  all  on  earth,  and  I  must  not 
have  a  thought  apart  from  him.  Will  you 
help  me  in  not  recurring  to  the  past  ?  I  am 
week  still,  you  see,  and  I  look  to  you  for  as- 
sistance." 

She  spoke  quickly,  nervously,  and  changed 
color  every  moment.  Ignorant  that  she  was 
betraying  to  Earnscliffe  that  which  a  woman 
of  the  world  would  have  hid  from  her  own 
heart,  namely,  that  his  influence  over  her 
was  as  powerful  as  ever,  she  said  simply  what 
phe  believed  it  was  her  duty  to  say;  hoping 
that,  having  done  so  in  this  first  "interview, 
their  future  intercourse  would  be  placed  upon 
a  right  fooling. 

"  Help  me,  Philip,  in  not  recurring  vainly 
to  the  p:t-t,  or  wMiing  any  part  of  life  un- 
done. \\  <•  have  both  so  much  to  make  us 
happv  still — you  in  your  genius  and  ambition, 
and  I " 


44  You  hesitate,  Marguerite." 

"  I,  in  the  kindness  and  affection  of  Mr. 
Mortimer,"  she  added,  but  with  an  effort. 
44  In  the  home  that  he  has  given  me — in 
striving  to  make  him  happy  in  his  old  age. 
Tell  me  that  you  think  it  right  that  we  should 
agree  to  forget  the  past  ?  " 

44  Agree  not  to  speak  of  it  rather!  it  can 
never  be  forgotten.  The  one  bright  spot 
out  of  my  whole  existence — those  few  short 
months,  when  however  guilty,  I  loved — was 
near  you  ;  no  Marguerite  !  it  is  impossible 
me  to  say,  4  'I  can  forget  it.'  If  any  recol- 
lection of  that  time  makes  it  bitter  for  you  to 
see  me  now,  I  will  never  intrude  upon  you 
again.  Tell  me  to  leave  you,  Marguerite — 
tell  me  that  as  a  married  woman  there  is 
wrong  in  your  being  with  me  again  ;  but  do 
not  ask  me  to  forget  the  past,  or  to  feign  an 
indifference  that  I  can  never  feel ! "  - 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  ;  her  heart  thrill- 
ed at  his  words  (cold  and  dull  when  written, 
but  oh,  how  eloquent  spoken  by  Earnscliffe  !) 
and,  wrong  or  right,  let  those  judge  who 
have  been  likewise  tempted — Marguerite 
could  not  bid  him  see  her  no  more.  What 
weight  had  thoughts  of  duty  or  prudence  as 
she  listened  ?  The  five  lethargic  years  she  had 
passed  without  Philip  were  gone;  and  they 
were  again  together  as  in  the  earliest,  fond- 
est days  of  their  love.  She  fancied  the  beat- 
ings of  the  waves  came  in  through  the  open 
windows — her  father  smiling  at  her  from  his 
old  place  by  the  fire  ! 

44  Philip,  I  can  never  ask  you  to  leave  me 
again — never  believe  that  there  is  wrong  in 
seeing  you." 

44  Oh,  Marguerite!  you  do  not  know  the 
happiness  those  words  hold  out  to  me.  After 
the  loneliness  of  years,  to  be  once  more  near 
you — occasionally  to  be  allowed  to  visit  you, 
hear  your  voice,  gaze  silently  upon  your  face, 
will  be  delight  I  can  scarcely  realise.  But 
you  look  flushed  and  tired,  my Mrs.  Mor- 
timer, I  mean.  Tell  me  that  you  are  not 
wearied  with  my  long  visit  ?  " 

44  How  could  I  be  wearied  with  you?  I 
am  flushed — but  not  with  fatigue.  Are  you 
really  going  so  soon  ?  "  as  Karnsdiffe  rose 
with  signs  of  departure.  "  You  have  not 
looked  at  the  books  yet,  or  at  my  drawings 
— I  have  learnt  to  draw  since  I  saw  you  last 
— or  at  a  portrait  of  my  mother  that  1  \\ish- 
cd  you  to  see.  Do  stay  a  little  while  long- 
er!" 

And  Earnsclilfe  stayed  until  the  golden 
sunset,  Hooded  the  room,  and  the  timepiece 
struck  seven,  and  the  hour  of  his  dinner- 
party in  town  was  over.  And  all  this  time 
every  word  of  Marguerite's,  every  gesture, 
every  wave  of  her  dress,  as  she  Mil  ted  light- 
ly before  him  with  her  books  and  drawings, 
was  recalling  his  old  passion,  and  making  his 
pulse  once  more  tremble  like  a  iim's — he — 
who  yesterday  declared  he  had  outlived 
love!  Ami  pci.ir  Marguerite!  .sale  as  she 
believed  them  both,  after  their  candid  avow- 


PHILIP  EAKXSCLIFFE. 


153 


al  and  her  own  resolutions,  looked  up  with 
}jer  frank,  confiding  gaze,  and  spoke  unre- 
servedly as  ever,  and  once  even  touched  his 
hand  with  h*r  old  familiar  gesture,  and  be- 
lieved that  it  was  all  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

"  How  pale  you  look,  Marguerite  !  and  so 
dreadfully  nervous!  You  scarcely  hear  a 
word  I  am  saying.  All  your  gaieties  are 
not  improving  your  beauty  !  " 

It  was  Miss  Georgy  who  spoke.  After 
remaining  for  some  months  indignant  with 
Marguerite,  she  at  last  bethought  herself 
that  Mrs.  Mortimer's  own  parties,  and  an  oc- 
casional place  in  her  opera-box,  were  infi- 
nitely better  than  nothing.  So  (about  a 
month  later  than  Philip's  first  visit  to  Wim- 
bledon), Miss  Georgy  came  down  unexpect- 
edly one  fine  day,  to  see  "  dear  Marguer- 
ite ; "  prepared,  as  she  said,  to  forgive 
everything,  and  have  a  long,  friendly  morn- 
ing together. 

The  standing  commencement  of  these 
*'  mornings  "  of  female  affection  being  for 
one  friend  to  say  something  mortifying  to 
the  other,  Miss  de  Burgh  had  opened  pro- 
ceedings by  commenting  very  plainly  upon 
her  young  relative's  ill  looks.  But  Mar- 
guerite, fitful  in  spirits,  after  the  now  daily 
excitement  of  meeting  Philip,  and  weary 
from  the  effects  of  a  feverish,  sleepless  night, 
cared  nothing  for  any  comments  on  her 
beauty. 

"  I  must  be  pale  I  know,"  was  the  reply, 
**  for  I  feel  far  from  well,  and  so  weary  "— 
leaning  her  head  down  on  the  silken  pillows 
of  the  sofa.  "  I  believe  I  go  out  too  much.' 
"  Ah,  yes  !  "  returned  Georgy,  with  one  or 
two  nods  ;  "  but  I  always  foresaw  it  all,  as  you 
know.  I  am  not  surprised.  I  always  tolc 
you,"  she  added,  "  what  it  would  be,* if  you 
and  Earnscliffe  ever  met  again." 

"Georgy" — her  pale  cheek  coloring  up 
in  a  second — "  I  don't  understand  you 

I " 

"  My  dear  Marguerite,  the  time  is  pas 
for  any  excessive  innocence   now.     After  a 
flirtation  with  your  cousin,  and  now  with  al 
London  talking  of  you  and  Earnscliffe,  sim 
plicity  is  almost  out  of  character." 

"All  London  talking  of  me!  Georgy 
you  must  jest." 

"Not  in  the  least,  dear;  I  hear  you 
name  a  great  deal  oftener  than  is  credifabl 
for  a  married  woman,  especially  when  ii 
connection  with  a  man  of  the  notoriety  of 
Earnscliffe." 

"  What  can  they  say  of  me?  Who  ca 
be  sufficiently  interested  to  mark  my  ac 
tions  ?  " 

"About  that  I  do  not  know;  what  the 


ay,  however,  is  very  soon  told — that  you 
re  carrying  on  a  most  desperate  flirtation  ! 
lowever,  it  does  not  signify  much,  as  long  as 
our  husband  hears  nothing  of  it,"  she  ad- 
ed  with  a  laugh. 

"  As  long  as  your  husband  hears  noth- 
ng ! "  These  careless  words  awakened  a 
ague  chill  of  terror  in  Marguerite's  heart. 
)ould  the  world  be  really  speaking  evil  of 
ier?  Could  there  be  a  chance  of  Morti- 
tier's  hearing  it?  She  felt  that  any  anger 
ier  own  explanation  might  have  awakened 
vould  be  nothing  compared  to  that. 

Georgy  read  her  face    directly ;  and,  for 

easons  of  her  own,  repented  she  had  said  so 

much.     She    did   not    wish  Marguerite  and 

ier  husband  to  have  scenes  and  explanations, 

r  leave  London  just  then. 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  half  in  earnest,"  she 
3ried  quickly;  "  but  you  take  everything  so 
extremely  auserieux.  English  people  always 
"nvent  scandal  about  each  other,  you  know ; 
t's  one  of  our  national  peculiarities.  But 
Mr.  Mortimer  is  not  likely  to  hear  the  on  dits 
of  your  world.  He  never  goes  out  with 
you,  does  he  ?  " 

"Never!"  repeated  Marguerite,  sadly. 
'  I  go  out  entirely  alone." 

"  Well,  it's  trying  for  you  ;  but  then,  from, 
he  way  you  used  to  talk,  we  all  thought  you 
were  quite  removed  from  the  temptation  of 
ordinary  mortals.  *  Gaities  had  no  charm 
for  you.'  '  You  liked  to  look  old  for  Morti- 
mer's sake,'  and  so  on.  I  always  knew, 
though,  that  it  could  not  last.  Are  you  go- 
ing to  Mrs.  Lorrimer'sj^e  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I  shall  go.  I  dislike 
those  long,  day-light  entertainments,  especi- 
ally now  that  I  am  not  well." 

"  But  you  can  go  late,"  said  Georgy. 
"There  is  to  be  a  ball,  alfresco,  and  the 
grounds  illuminated,  and  I  know  not  what 
besides." 

"  I  wish  you  were  going  in  my  place, 
Georgy." 

"Dear  Marguerite,  how  kind  of  you! 
But  that  is  impossible,  you  know  ;  one  per- 
son cannot  accept  the  invitation  of  another. 
If  you  were  going,  it  would  be  different." 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  going,  I  could  take  you 
easily.  I  know  Mrs.  Lorrimer  so  well,  that 
I  should  not  scruple  to  bring  you  with  me." 

"Ah!  dear  Marguerite,  do  go,  for  my 
sake,"  pleaded  Georgy,  in  her  softest  man- 
ner. I  have  had  such  a  dull  season ;  and 
mamma  cares  less  for  anything  but  her  own 
fancied  complaints  every  day." 

Marguerite  would  infinitely  have  preferred 
remaining  away ;  but  Georgy  looked  so  ea- 
ger, she  did  not  like  to  refuse,  especially, 
after  the  cold  feeling  that  had  lately  existed 
between  them. 

"  Well,  as  you  like,"  she  answered. 
"  What  day  is  it  for  ?  I  have  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

"June  the  first,  dear;  that  will  be  next 
Friday — in  three  days.  Marguerite,  how 


154 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


good-natured  of  you  to  take  me !  What 
must  I  wear?"  Georgy's  manner  was  so 
child-like,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  she 
was  ten  years  older  than  her  intended  diap- 
er on. 

' '  Wear  ?  Oh,  Georgy,  I  have  so  many 
dresses  that  I  have  never  worn.  I  wish  you 
•would  take  one  of  them.  It  would  be  really 
a  kindness ;  for  this  will  probably  be  my  last 
gaiety  this  season,  and  by  next  year  they  will 
be  old  fashioned.  Eulalie  could  make  any 
alteration  you  liked." 

Miss  de  Burgh  was  not  too  proud  to  ac- 
cept the  offer,  and  accompanied  her  to  her 
dressing-room ;  where,  after  a  long  inspec- 
tion of  numbers  of  costly  toilettes,  she  chose 
the  most  expensive  she  could  see,  and  Mar- 
guerite's last  bonnet  from  Paris,  with  the 
small  addition  of  French  gloves  and  sleeves. 

**  Are  you  quite  sure  you  can  spare  them  ?  " 
said  Georgy,  after  Mademoiselle  Eulalie  had 
carefully  packed  up  her  spoil. 

"Oh,  yes.  Indeed,  I  care  nothing  for 
gay  dresses  myself.  It  is  Mr.  Mortimer  who 
insists  upon  my  having  all  these  rich  things." 

**  And  yet,  with  all  your  extravagances, 
you  seem  to  have  plenty  left  for  charity.  I 
see  your  name  at  the  head  of  every  list  and 
subscription." 

"  Yes,  out  of  our  superfluity'.  We  feel 
nothing  that  we  give.  I  have  never  spoken 
to  a  poor  person  since  I  married." 

"  Of  course  not.  In  your  position,  and 
living  in  London,  or  near  it,  you  can't  do 
those  things  as  though  you  were  a  curate's 
wife,  on  a  hundred  a-year,  in  the  country." 

"  So  Mr.  Mortimer  says ;  and  of  course  he 
is  right " 

**  Talking  of  country  curates,  Marguer- 
ite," interrupted  Georgy,  "do you  remember 
your  admirer — Mr.  Ignatius  Shirley  ?  " 

"  Who  said  I  was  an  Anglican?  Yes,  I 
remember  him." 

"  Will  you  believe  that,  after  all  his  pro- 
fession, and  shaving  his  hair  close  to  his 
head,  and  intoning  the  service,  and  saying 
(when  mamma  demanded  an  explanation  of 
his  attentions  to  me)  that  the  Catholic  priest- 
hood should  not  marry,  he  has  gone  com- 
pletely round.  His  new  rector  was  Low 
Church,  and  very  rich,  with  one  daughter; 
and  the  mean  little  wretch  was  in  Broad 
Church  in  a  week,  then  as  Low  as  possible, 
in  the  hopes  of  getting  her.  However,  lam 
happy  to  say,  the  girl  married  some  one  else  ; 
and  Shirley  has  just  been  well  pulled  up  by 
his  new  bishop — who  is  an  Anglican  again — 
for  saying  in  one  of  his  sermons  that'  baptism 
was  a  pleasing  form.'  " 

«•  Ami  what  has  become  of  your  own  opin- 
ions, Gcorg\ •?  You  went  even  further  than 
Mr.  Shirlev,  I  remember." 

"  I  am  developing,"  said  Miss  de  Burgh, 
iolemnly. 

"  Into  what?  "  asked  Marguerite,  to  whom 


the  phrase  was  new. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  ignorant  of 
the  beautiful  theory  of  development  ?  Oh, 
Marguerite !  my  future  life  will  show  it 
you." 

"And  who  is  your  preceptor  in  this 'new 
— system  ?  "  Marguerite  inquired,  aware 
that  without  a  priest  no  faith  would  do  for 
Georgy. 

"My  present  counsellor  is  the  Comte  de 
Montravers — a  man  to  whom  England  will 
yet  owe  her  regeneration.  We  shall  meet 
him  I  trust,  on  Friday." 

"  I  am  surprised  that  those  to  whom  such 
serious  questions  are  all-important  can  care 
for  the  frivolties  of  society,"  Marguerite  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Georgy,  with  a  pitying 
shake  of  the  head,  "that  is  how  the  world 
speaks,  knowing  nothing  of  the  beautiful 
elasticity  which  is  our  chief  characteristic. 
We  go  into  society  for  society's  sake — not 
our  own." 

Marguerite  wondered,  as  this  was  the  case, 
that  Georgy  should  care  for  Brussels  lace, 
and  Paris  bonnets  ;  but  concluded  it  was  part 
of  the  elasticity  she  spoke  of. 

"But  I  never  dance  now,"  said  Miss  de 
Burgh.  "  What  I  can,  without  singularity 
renounce  of  these  follies,  I  do.  Is  that  your 
lunch  bell,  Marguerite?  I  must  make  an 
early  dinner  with  you.  To-day  is  a  fast,  and 
I  attend  complin." 

They  went  down  to  the  dining-room  ;  and, 
from  Miss  de  Burgh  s  vigorous  onslaught 
upon  chicken  pie  and  jelly,  Marguerite  con- 
cluded that  fasting  was  an  exercise  to  which 
she  had  not  yet  yet  "  developed." 

"  What  time  shall  you  call  for  me  ?  "  she 
inquired,  when  her  little  meal  was  finished. 
"  Let  us  go  late;  the  effect  is  much  better 
on  entering  fresh,  and  when  other  people 
are  beginning  to  be  tired.'^ 

"Certainly — we  shall  have  fewer  hours 
of  it — five,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Oh  !  at  the  latest,  Marguerite.  Remem- 
ber it  is  an  alfresco  affair,  and  the  dancing 
will  commence  early.  Suppose  you  say  that 
you  leave  your  house  at  four;  by  the  time 
you  have  picked  me  up,  and  we  drive  to 
Richmond,  it  will  be  late  enough,  in  all  con- 
science. Good  bye." 

"  But  you  do  not  walk,  surely?  " 

"No.  I  came — I  was  obliged  to  come — 
in  the  omnibus." 

"  Then  wait,  at  least,  till  I  order  the  car- 
riage round  li>r  you.  I  am  going  to  ride  on 
horseback  this  afternoon. " 

"Oh,  you  dear,  kind  creature!"1 

And  alter  more  kisses,  and  mueh  amiabil- 
ity, Georgy  took  her  leave,  to  be  in  time. 
for  complin;  but  not  forgetting  to  havo 
Marguerite's  presents  carefully  .stowed  away 
in  the  carriage. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


155 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

MARGUERITE  said  rightly  that  Earnscliffe 
had  much  to  make  life  desirable  in  his  ge- 
nius and  ambition.  He  had  returned,  no 
longer  a  dreaming  boy,  with  morbid  feelings 
towards  one  class  because  they  had  slighted 
him,  towards  another  because  they  had  mis- 
appreciated  his  books.  Great  and  settled 
principles  had  dawned  upon  him  in  this  in- 
terval ;  and,  as  at  thirty  every  man  must 
strengthen  his  onward  or  retrograde  path,  the 
turning  point  had  arrived  from  whence  Phil- 
ip's was  to  be  recognised  as  one  of  the  lead- 
ing intellects  of  the  day. 

The  downfall  of  a  ministry — only  held  to- 

f  ether  because  any  change  at  that  crisis  was 
angerous — was  imminent ;  and,  under  a  new 
administration,  Earnscliffe's  intention  was  to 
enter  Parliament,  and  take  an  active  part  in 
the  social  reform  of  which  he  was  now  a  sup- 
porter. 

Meantime,  he  went  as  much  as  ever  into 
society,  and  soon  had  an  only  too  engross- 
ing object  there — an  object  before  which,  for 
the  time,  even  his  own  political  advancement 
was  secondary.  In  three  weeks  from  the 
day  of  their  first  meeting,  Philip  knew  that 
he  loved  Marguerite  with  a  passion  compar- 
ed to  which  even  his  former  love  for  her 
seemed  tame  and  poor.  He  strove  with  it — 
he  felt  that  it  was  madness — putting  aside  any 
higher  consideration  of  religion — that,  even 
if  Marguerite  were  to  become  his,  the  mis- 
ery of  both  would  be  sealed ;  yet  he  could 
riot  resist  temptation  by  leaving  London,  or 
seeing  her  no  more.  He  loved  her  beyond 
the  bounds  of  prudence  and  reason.  He  had 
not  learnt,  in  his  youth  that  where  reason 
stops,  paralysed  and  forceless,  a  higher 
principle  can  conquer ;  and  that  only  religion 
— warm,  heartfelt  religion — can  combat  the 
frailty  of  our  erring  nature,  and  still  the  wild 
dictates  of  earthly  desire.  He  had  to  learn 
it  by  a  bitterer  lesson  than  any  which  his 
life  had  yet  taught  him. 

Earnscliffe  went  rarely  to  Wimbledon,  and 
•when  he  did  so  his  visits  were  short.  Un- 
like St.  Leon,  he  shrank  from  receiving  the 
hearty  grasp  of  Mortimer's  hand,  his  ever 
ready  hospitality,  his  cordial  and  frequent 
invitations.  The  absence  of  all  distrust  or 
suspicion  in  the  old  man,  his  utter  confidence 
in  Marguerite,  were  irresistible  appeals  to 
one  of  Philip's  generous  nature.  Although 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  withdraw  from  the 
wrong  itself,  he  shunned  communication  with 
the  man  whom  his  conscience  told  him  he 
was  injuring,  and  at  last  only  met  Marguer- 
ite in  the  parks,  or  at  parties  and  the  opera 
but  then  these  meetings  occurred,  at  the 
least,  every  five  days  out  of  the  seven  ! 

"  I  hear  grave  things  of  you,"  said  his 
friend  Neville,  one  morning  when  Philip  was 
alone  with  him  in  his  studio.  Neville  lived 
in  a  good  house  now  ;  and  was,  according  to 


bis  own  ideas,  a  very  rich  man.  "Every 
one  is  coupling  your  name  with  that  of  Mrs. 
Mortimer.  Surely  you  would  not  let  the 
fair  fame  of  the  woman  you  were  once  ready 
to  die  for,  be  sacrificed  to  gratify  your  vani- 
ty ?  Whatever  are  your  faults,  Phil,  that  is 
unlike  you." 

"Who  mentioned  my  name  with  hers?11 
exclaimed  Philip,  angrily,  "Who  dared  to 
breathe  one  word  in  detraction  of  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer? Neville,  you  are  bound  to  tell  me." 

"My  good  friend,  be  cool!  When  you 
are  devoted  to  Mrs.  Mortimer  at  every  par- 
ty where  you  meet  her,  are  always  seen  in 
ber  box  at  the  opera,  or  riding  beside  her  in 
the  park,  I  suppose — ignorant  as  I  am  of 
such  things — that  it  is  just  to  call  you  her 
very  warm  admirer,  and  not  unmerited  to 
speak  lightly  of  herself.  Married  English- 
women don't  encourage  these  innocent  friend- 
ships, you  know,  as  they  do  in  France  or 
Italy." 

Philip  made  no  reply.  Something  in  Ne- 
ville's plain  way  of  speaking  brought  the 
real  truth  before  him ;  and  he  shuddered  to 
think  that  Marguerite's  name  was  being  sul- 
lied by  all  the  idle  men  and  loungers  in  clubs, 
and  that  he  should  be  the  cause. 

"  These  things  are  incomprehensible  to 
me,"  pursued  Neville,  throwing  himself  back 
in  his  chair,  and  sending  forth  a  perfect  vol- 
cano of  smoke  from  his  short  meerschaum. 

The  kind  of  entanglement  into  which  you 
are  now  entering  is  a  madness  I  can  neither 
understand  nor  pity.  Tours,  mind — I  pity 
her,  by  Jove  !  The  world  is  wide,  there  are 
hundreds  of  women  of  all  ages  and  condi- 
tions whom  you  might  easily  win,  yet  you 
still  pursue  and  hunt  down  this  poor  little 
creature,  who  very  nearly  lost  herself  for  you 
before,  when  she  was  a  child.  Leave  her, 
Phil !  How  is  it  all  to  end  ?  that  is  what  I 
ask.  By  her  deserting  her  home  and  hus- 
band for  you  ?  Oh,  you  turn  away !  but 
such  is  the  conclusion  of  this  kind  of  attach- 
ment. Then — what  is  the  result  ?  At  thir- 
ty— just  when  your  life  is  really  beginning 
— you  are  saddled  with  a  woman  for  ever, 
whom  it  would  be  infamy  to  desert,  yet 
whose  presence,  after  six  months,  will  be  a 
literal  burden  to  you.  A  woman,  uncor- 
rupt  in  heart,  yet  classed  by  the  world  with 
the  vilest  of  her  sex — always  in  tears,  always 
devoured  by  self-reproach  that  she  would 
vainly  seek  to  hide — such  would  be  your 
household  companion.  Suppose  a  step  fur- 
ther— there  is  a  divorce,  or  the  husband  dies, 
and  you  marry  her — as  a  man  of  honor  you 
must  do  so — worse  and  worse  still !  You 
are  now  married  to  a  woman  society  will 
never  receive ;  you  can  never  forget  what 
she  was  (what  you  made  her — mind  !  )  be- 
fore she  was  your  wife ;  you  can  never  feel 
respect  for  her,  or  she  for  you.  If  she  is 
still  young  and  beautiful  you  will  be  jealous 
of  your  most  intimate  friend;  remember  the 
fair  face  with  which  she  deceived  her  first 


156 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


husband,  wnen  she  was  encouraging  you  ; 
and  never  be  alone  with  her  writing  desk 
without  the  secret  wish  to  break  it  open,  and 
discover  if  the  same  sort  of  notes  are  lying 
there  which  you  remember  to  have  existed 
in  the  time  of  Mr.  Mortimer,  defunct." 

"  Good  heavens,  Neville  !  have  you  done  ?  " 
interrupted  Philip,  impatiently.  "  I  never 
heard  any  human  being  talk  so  fast  or  so 
incessantly  as  yourself.  You  go  on  with 
your  imaginings  until  you  make  me  out  a 
thorough  villain,  betrayer,  seducer — almost 
murderer.  I  wish  you  would  reflect  upon 
what  you  are  saying." 

•*  It  would  be  well  for  you  to  do  so,  my 
friend  !  "  replied  Neville.  •  "  However,  some 
day  you  will  remember  my  counsels,  and 
wish  you  had  attended  to  them." 

"  Neville!"  exclaimed  Philip,  springing 
up,  and  speaking  very  earnestly,  "  you  misun- 
derstand me  altogether.  I  would  give  rny 
right  hand  sooner  than  Marguerite  should  be 
ill  thought  of.  But  you  know  not  all  the 
history  of  her  past  life  and  mine ;  you  can, 
however,  guess  my  feelings,  for  you  have 
seen  her.  Tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do — how 
act  as  a  man  of  honor." 

"How  act  with  honor,  Earnscliffe? 
Leave  her  at  once — how  can  there  be  a 
question  ?  Break  it  off  directly." 
*'  And  her  feelings  ?  " 
"Oh!  her  feelings  are  already  engaged 
then,  too  ?  It  is  even  worse  than  I  thought. 
I  will  tell  you  what,  Phil,  no  half-measures-, 
will  avail  now.  Leave  town  immediately — 
go  abroad  again — to  Scotland — anywhere  you 
will,  and  stay  there  till  the  whole  affair  is 
past.  When  you  return,  it  will  be  compara- 
tively easy  to  avoid  the  snare  once  escaped — 
feign  another  love,  for  example.  Are  you 
listening  to  a  single  word  I  am  saying,  man 
cher,  or  only  meditating,  after  the  common 
manner  of  human  nature,  how  you  will  not 
act  upon  the  advice  you  asked  for?" 

'•  I  have  heard  you,"  replied  Philip,  slow- 
ly, "  and  know  that  you  are  thus  far  right. 
It  must  be  broken  off  at  once,  or  never." 

"  And  between  these  two  you  hesitate  ? 
Between  common  sense  and  common  honor, 

and  eternal " 

"Neville!"  he  interrupted,  abruptly, 
"  there  are  some  points  upon  which  no  third 
person  can  give  an  opinion.  Thank  you  for 
your  good  intentions,  and — good  morning;  " 
and  before  his  friend  could  speak  again  he 
had  quitted  the  room. 

"  And  I  have  lost  half  my  morning," 
soliloquised  the  artist  when  he  was  gone. 
Oh  !  the  folly  of  arguing  with  a  man  in  love." 


That,  evening  Marguerite  was  at  the  opera. 
more  fresh  and  youthful-looking  than  ever,  in 
a  white.  dress  and  natural  (lowers  (  Karns- 
clilfi'  had  said  how  much  he  pn-li-rn-d  seeing 
her  without  her  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  ol 


late  she  had  never  worn  them  when  Mortimer 
would  allow  her  to  appear  in  public  dressed 
according  to  her  own  simple  taste).  Dur- 
ing the  second  act,  .--he  saw  Philip  enter  a 
box  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and 
seat  himself  beside  one  of  the  youngest 
beauties  of  the  season,  to  whom  he  began 
paying — or  appearing  to  pay — the  most 
marked  attention.  Perhaps  he  was  already 
trving  to  follow  Neville's  advice — perhaps  he 
wished  to  test  how  Marguerite  would  brook 
divided  homage.  She  was,  however,  devoid 
of  all  small  jealousy ;  and  thinking  it  quite 
natural  Philip  should  sometimes  like  to  talk 
to  others  beside  herself,  she  smiled  and  chat- 
ted with  just  her  usual  manner  to  the  bevy 
of  box-loungers,  who  approached  her  be- 
tween the  acts. 

"That  Eastern  man,"  lisped  Mr.  Grot- 
tiesley,  or  "little  Grot,"  as  his  friends  call- 
ed him — a  young  guardsman,  with  straw- 
colored  moustache  and  moonlike  face,  who 
had  long  wished  to  be  one  of  Marguerite's 
admirers.  "  What  is  his  name  ?  Earnton, 
Eaml«> " 

"  Mr.  Earnscliffe,  perhaps." 
()h  ! — ah  ! — he  really    has  something  to 


say,  T  suppose :  Miss  Carlton  Vere  appears 
actually  listening  as  he  talks  to  her?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Marguerite,  smiling,  "  one 
always  remembers,  at  least,  what  Mr.  Earns- 
cliffe is  talking  about,  which  is  not  the  case 
with  every  one,  I  must  "•onfess." 

«Oh  !— Ah  ! — yes  ! — tombs,  I  suppose,  and 
all  that — ah  ! — dreadful  bore,  men  who  have, 
been  to  Thebes  and  Petraea,  and  such 
places,  and  talk  about  what  they  have  seen. 
Now  /have  been  all  over  the  world — Egypt 
—  Jerusalem — Crimea —  St.  Petersburg!)  — 
but  vou  would  not  guess  it,  would  you  ?  " 

Oh  no!"  Marguerite  answered,  in  her  most 
simple  manner.  "  I  should  have  thought 
you  had  only  just  left  school.  Is  it  possible 
that  you  have  really  travelled?" 

14  Miss  Carlton  Vere  is  not  half  as  pretty 
as  she  is  usually  called,"  remarked  a  friend, 
who  was  listening  with  pleasure  to  little 
Grot's  failure.  "  Do  you  think  anything  of 
her,  Mrs.  Mortimer?  " 

"Indeed  I  do!"  replied  Marguerite  ; 
"  hers  is  just  the  style  I  admire — finely 
chiselled  features,  and"  pale,  alabaster  com- 
plexion." 

"  A  poet's  beauty,  in  short.  Earnscliffe 
seems  to  consider  it  so." 

Hut  Margin-rite's  ealm  expression  did  not 
vary  for  a  second  ;  and  the  young  guards- 
mail  who  disliked  tombs  remarked  to  his 
friend,  when  they  had  left  her  box — 

"  That  woman  is  the  deepest  hand  I  ever 
knew;  she  never  even  changed  color  at  my 
sarcasm  about  that  puppy,  ESumSCliflTe.*1 

Philip,  meanwhile,  was  absent  and  ilidrnit. 
lie  was  intently  watching  Marguerite  all  the 
time  that  lie  se'eiiie,]  t<>  be  so  attentive  to  the 
ladv  at  his  side,  and  wondering  how  she 
could  be  so  happy  and  smiling  without  him — 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE 


157 


nay,  more,  while  he  was  apparently  devoted 
to  a  fresh  object.  Had  he,  after  *all,  given 
her  credit  for  deeper  feeling  than  she  pos- 
sessed ? — would  the  idea  of  parting  from  him 
again  affect  her  as  deeply  as  he  had  told 
Neville?  His  impatience  soon  overcame  all 
previous  resolution ;  and.  feigning  some  ex- 
cuse, he  actually  started  up  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  Miss  Carlton  Vere's  prettiest  young- 
lady  remarks,  and  came  quickly  round  to 
Marguerite's  box. 

She  heard  the  door  softly  open,  and  knew, 
without  turning  round,  that  it  was  Earns- 
cliffe  (at  all  times  she  could  feel  his  presence 
without  seeing  him.)  They  had  met  already 
that  afternoon  in  the  park,  and  Philip  seated 
himself  without  any  salutation,  in  the  far- 
thest corner  of  the  box.  where  the  deep 
shadow  screened  him  from  observation, 
while  Marguerite  still  kept  her  eyes  upon 
the  stage.  Without  exactly  knowing  why, 
she  felt  embarrassed,  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak  first. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  he  thought,  as  he  scan- 
red  her  features,  "  that  she  is  only  trifling 
with  me  ? — coquetting,  like  any  other  woman, 
and  as  for  ought  I  know  to  the  contrary — she 
may  actually  have  done  with  that  French 
cousin  already?"  From  the  beginning  of 
time,  whoever  has  loved  has  been  unjust,  at 
the  slightest  breath  of  jealousy.  "  She  did 
not  look — when  talking  to  that  young  fool 
just  now — as  though  it  would  break  her  heart 
to  part  with  me.  However,  it  shall  be  put 
to  the  test." 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  Philip  said, 
shortly,  and  with  no  preparation — "Mrs. 
Mortimer,  if  your  attention  is  not  too  much 
engrossed  with  the  music,  I  have  come  to 
wish  you  good  bye  !  " 

She  started  round  and  faltered — "  Good- 
bye !  Oh,  Mr.  Earnscliffe  !  only  for  a  short 

^11 

"  For  months — a  year,  perhaps — my  ab- 
sence will  be  quite  indefinite. 

She  looked  at  him  in  utter  astonishment  as 
he  spoke  in  this  cold,  strange  tone — looked 
at  him  with  compressed  lips,  tearful,  dilated 
eyes,  as  no  coquette  in  this  world  ever  look- 
ed. 

•'  Another  parting  !  "  she  murmured  ;  "  oh  ! 
how  shall  I  bear  it  ?  " 

Then  she  turned  away,  and  Philip  saw  her 
hand  clasp  tightly  over  her  side,  with  the  old 
gesture  that  any  sudden  pain  called  forth ; 
and  at  once  he  was  re-assured  of  poor  Mar- 
guerite^ sincerity.  "  Could  he  leave  her 
after  this  ? — was  he  justified  in  breaking  off 
their  friendship,  now  that  he  was  certain  of 
having  awakened  all  the  long-buried  love  of 
that  gentle  nature  ?  " 

"  Marguerite,  <-an  my  actions  indeed  affect 
you  so  much  ?  Will  you  bid  me  remain  ?  " 

She  looked  round,  very  slowly  this  time 
and,   without  saying  a  word,    held   out  her 
hand  to  him.     EarnsclifFe  took  it;  its  pres- 
sure thrilled  to  his  very  heart,  and  from  that 


moment  all  further  irresolution  on  his  part 
was  over,  all  fainter  warnings  of  his  better 
nature  unheeded — he  felt  that  Marguerite 
nust  be  his. 

"  How  could  you  so  trifle  with  me?  "  she 
asked,  after  a  time.  "  You  could  not  indeed 
mean  to  leave  again,  when  you  have  only  just 
returned  to  England,  and  are  so  occupied 
with  your  political  prospects?  How  foolish 
I  was  to  believe  you  !  But  these  are  cruel 
est.s  !  I  have  too  few  real  friends  to  bear  the 
:hought  of  losing  one  of  them." 

"  You  could  really  feel  pain  at  parting 
with  me  ?  " 

"Really!  Oh,  Mr.  Earnscliffe,  I  know 
low  badly  I  dissemble — you  must  have  read 
t  on  my  face  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  read  your  face  now — 
afraid  lest  my  own  wishes  should  read  dif- 
'erentlv  to  the  truth — afraid  even  to  read  the 
truth." 

"  You  speak  strangely  to-night ;  I  scarcely 
understand  you." 

"  Shall  I  be  plainer,  Marguerite?  " 

"Oh,  hush  !  we  are  not  listening  to  the 
sweetest  notes  of  the  Piccolomini  " — and  she. 
turned  from  him,  blushing. 

"  I  only  hear  one  voice,"  replied  Earns- 
cliffe ;  and  during  the  remainder  of  the  opera 
neither  spoke  again — but,  for  them,  silence 
was  now  only  too  eloquent. 

When  the  last  act  was  over,  Marguerite 
rose  to  leave  (she  never  stayed  for  the  ballet) , 
and  Philip,  as  usual,  escorted  her  to  her 
carriage.  They  had  to  wait  some  time  before 
it  came  up,  and  both  seemed  constrained  and 
disinclined  to  speak.  Earnscliffe  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  do  so,  and  Marguerite,  with- 
out knowing  why,  felt  herself  trembling 
nervously  as  she  held  his  arm.  She  tried  a 
dozen  times  to  make  some  common-place 
remark  to  break  the  silence,  but  each  time 
the  words  died  on  her  lips ;  and  at  length, 
with  an  effort,  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  with 
a  forced  laugh,  just  what  she  least  intended 
to  say — 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  us  both  so  dull 
to-night  ?  " 

Earnscliffe  bent  down  and  whispered — 
something  that  made  his  companion  shrink 
and  turn  cold. 

"  No,  no — impossible.  I  cannot  listen  to 
such  words,  even  from  you." 

"  Then  why  ask  me  not  to  leave  you?  We 
can  continue  no  longer  as  we  are  now ;  eith- 
er our  intimacy  must  cease  at  once  or " 

his  voice  became  so  low  that  only  Marguer- 
ite's ear  could  catch  its  sound. 

They  were  standing  apart  from  the  crowd, 
and  where  a  deep  shadow  fell  across  them 
both,  but  Earnscliffe  could  see  the  whiteness 
of  her  face,  as  she  looked  up  to  his,  and  how 
her  lips  quivered. 

"  Never,"  she  replied,  slowly,  and  as 
though  each  word  was  wrung  from  her  with 
pain.  "  I  will  never  leave  him,  nor  forget  all 
that  I  owe  to  him.  No,  not  for  your  sake." 


158 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"  Then  I  have  been  mistaken,"  said 
Philip.  "  I  believed  that  you  loved  me  ;  that, 
loving  me,  you  would  make  any  sacrifice, 
even  that  of  name  or  position,  for  me.  I 
believed  you  incapable  of  trifling  with  me — as 
you  had  already  done  with  your  cousin 
Gaston,"  he  added,  sarcastically.  He  had 
not  anticipated  so  instant  a  rejection,  and 
his  pride  was  wounded  by  her  tone. 

"Gaston!"  echoed  Marguerite.  "  You 
accuse  me  of  trifling  with  him,  and  compare 
my  feelings  towards  you  with  what  I  bore 
him !  Then  you  shall  hear  me — I  will  tell 
you  the  exact  truth,  Mr.  EarnsclifFe.  I  never 
cared  for  Gaston  more  than  as  a  cousin ;  I 
misled  him  unintentionally — and — I  have 
loved  you — loved  you  as  a  child,  when  I 
was  ignorant  of  my  sin  in  doing  so — shall 
never  cease  to  love  you,  now  even  that  I 
know  my  guilt.  But,"  she  went  on,  passion- 
ately, "  I  will  not  bring  dishonor  on  my 
husband — I  will  never  cause  a  moment's 
sorrow  to  the  only  one  on  earth  who  has 
been  my  friend.  Though  my  heart  may 
break  in"  the  effort,  I — I  will  part  from  you, 
Philip." 

She  took  her  hand  from  his  arm,  and  strove 
to  move  away,  but  Earnscliffe  could  see  that 
she  trembled' too  violently  to  be  able  to  walk  ; 
and,  fearing  observation  from  the  crowds  of 
people  who  were  near,  he  whispered,  hur- 
riedly, *'  Mrs.  Mortimer,  I  entreat  of  you  to 
take  my  arm.  I  have  been  most  wrong  to 
speak  to  you  thus,  and  at  such  a  time — pardon 
me.  I  will  offend  no  more." 

She  accepted  his  arm,  for  she  felt  that  h»;r 
limbs  were  powerless  to  support  her;  and 
neither  uttered  a  word  until  Marguerite  had 
entered  the  carnage.  Then  she  bent  forward, 
unable  to  part  with  him  in  anger,  and  already 
reproaching  herself  for  the  pain  she  had 
caused  him. 

44  Philip,  if  I  spoke  harshly,  forgive  me.  It 
is  better  that  you  should  leave — that  we 
should  not  meet  again  ;  but,  forget  this  even- 
ing, think  of  me  with  kindness,  for  I  shall  be 
very  miserable." 

The  carriage  drove  away,  and  Philip  stood 
gazing  after  it  in  the  dim  light,  his  arms  fold- 
ed, his  lips  compressed.  4<  She  is  mine,"  he 
thought,  "mine  already!  Her  last  frai 
defence  is  pity  for  the  old  man.  An  hour— 
a  moment — will  overthrow  it.  The  desire  ol 
my  whole  life  is  attained  ;  the  only  woman 
have  really  loved,  won."  And  he  tunie< 
and  walked  homewards,  yet  with  no  feeling 
of  elation  at  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

AFTKR  a  few  hours  of  feverish,  tmiiblrc 
sleep,  Marguerite  awoke  to  the  mi-cry  of 
another  day.  She  had  to  listen  to  Mortimer's 


sual  stories  and  extracts  from  the  newspaper 
t  breakfast,  strive  to  make  replies — parry 
is  questions  about  her  pale  face  and  confused 
nanner — tell  him  what  she  had  done,  and 
whom  she  had  seen  the  night  before 

'Mr.  Earnscliffe !— ah,  he  liked  Mr. 
Earnscliffe.  Why  did  he  not  come  oftener 
o  see  them  ?  why  would  he  not  accept  their 
nvitations  to  dinner  now  ?  It  was  very 
trange,  as  he  was  an  old  friend  of  her  fa- 
her's."  And  so  on,  while  Marguerite's 
lands  grew  colder  and  colder,  and  her  breath 
•ame  so  thick  she  could  scarcely  articulate  a 
word. 

She  felt  intensely  relieved  when  Mortimer 
departed,  with  the  announcement  that  he 
should  not  return  till  dinner-time,  and  she 
ad  at  least  the  solace  of  being  alone  and  un- 
questioned. During  all  the  forenoon  she  re- 
nained  in  her  own  dressing-room,  unoccupied 
and  tearless,  but  with  somewhat  the  same 
lull,  leaden  sense  of  oppression  upon  her 
that  she  had  experienced  before  leaving  Ker- 
saint.  After  luncheon  she  shut  herself  in  the 
ibrary,  with  orders  that  no  visitors  should 
ae  admitted,  and  then  strove  to  exert  herself 
to  read ;  but  though  the  words  floated  be- 
fore her  eyes,  her  mind  did  not  receive  their 
neaning,  and  would  recur  to  the  all-engross- 
ng  object  of  her  previous  thoughts.  So, 
after  mechanically  turning  over  the  pages  for 
an  hour  or  two,  she  laid  the  book  aside  ;  and 
then,  opening  a  private  drawer  in  one  of  the 
cases,  took  out  a  manuscript  book  of  her  own 
writing,  and,  seating  herself  by  the  table, 
made  a  short  entry  on  its  last  leaf. 

This  book  had  been  given  her  by  her  fa- 
ther on  her  twelfth  birthday,  when  he  told 
her  she  should  try  and  note  down  in  it  the 
progress  of  her  own  mind  and  feelings  from, 
that  day  onward  until  she  was  a  woman ; 
and,  faithful  to  every  wish  of  his,  Marguerite 
had  continued  to  do  so  even  to  the  present 
time  ;  so  that  it  formed  a  complete  history  of 
her  whole  inner  life  from  her  childhood  till 
now. 

The  story  of  her  love  for  Earnscliffe  was 
written  with  the  most  entire  truthfulness: 
her  confession  of  it  to  him  on  the  day  of  the 
storm,  her  anguish  at  parting  with  him — all 
was  there  without  a  gloss  of  concealment. 
Then  came  her  dreary  life  with  the  Danhy's; 

then  her  marriage.  After  tin's  there  wen-, 
for  two  or  three  years,  few  entries  ;  occasion- 
ally, a  subdued  expression,  not  of  complaint, 
but  of  her  want,  of  interest  in  existence — a 
fear  that,  for  Mortimer's  happiness  she  had 
committed  an  error  in  marrying  him.  Later 
on  came  the  description  of  her  entrance  into 
the  world,  ami  of  all  the  admiration  she  re- 
ceived there  ;  Imt  still  with  allusions  to  the  ono 
great  object  that  her  life  lacked,  and  whoso 
place  no  triumphs  of  her  beauty  and  talents 
could  supply.  At  la.st  came  her  meeting 
wilh  Karnscliffe.  and  Marguerite  trembled  a* 
she  read  over  all  that  she  had  written  since 
then,  and  compared  it  with  the  early  dea- 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


159 


cription  of  her  love  for  him  at  Kersaint. 
There  was  so  slight  a  difference — only  the 
childish  simplicity  of  style  was  altered ;  the 
feeling  was  the  same — or  deeper ! 

•*  It  would  be  better  destroyed,"  she 
thought.  *'  This  journal  records  no  very 
happy  life  ;  and  if  I  were  to  die  suddenly — 
not  an  unlikely  event  I  know — it  would  fall 
into  Mr.  Mortimer's  keeping,  and  render 
him  miserable  in  the  thought  that  I  was  less 
contented  than  he  believed  me.  I  had  bet- 
ter destroy  it.  It  is  strange  that  my  entry 
of  to-day  should  fill  the  last  leaf!  Is  it  that 
after  this  my  real  history  will  be  over — my 

life  have  nothing  more  to  record  ?  or " 

and  a  vague  but  solemn  presentiment  whis- 
pered that  perhaps  her  life,  indeed,  was  al- 
most past. 

*'  I  had  better  destroy  It  at  once,"  she 
repeated,  slowly,  and  approaching  towards 
the  fire.  But  those  pages  recalled  so  much : 
the  early  entries,  before  she  had  ever  known 
Earnscliffe,  so  brought  back  her  childhood 
and  Kersaint  that,  after  hesitating  some  time, 
Marguerite  decided  she  would  not  burn  it 
yet.  "  And,  besides,  it  was  her  father's 
gift."  And  so  the  book  was  again  laid  in  its 
former  place,  and  then,  falteringly  she  drew 
forth  some  notes  and  papers  that  were  always 
kept  in  the  same  drawer  with  her  journal. 
On  some  of  them  the  rik  was  faded  now,  the 
paper  discolored.  These  were  scraps  of 
poetry,  half-playful,  half-serious,  that  Philip 
used  to  write  at  Kersaint— all  carefully 
treasured,  even  then — and  with  them  was  the 
long  letter  which  he  had  written  to  her  from 
Tyrol.  But  Marguerite  knew  all  these  by 
heart;  and,  after  holding  them  in  her  hand 
for  a  few  seconds,  she  replaced  them ;  and 
then,  but  very  hesitatingly,  and  as  though 
other  eyes  than  her  own  'were  in  the  silent 
room,  took  out  another  packet  of  letters. 
These  were,  however,  freshly  written,  and 
still  in  Philip's  h.-snd. 

As  Marguerite  read  and  re-read  some  of 
the  ambiguously-worded  notes  he  had  lately 
written  to  her — but  to  every  syllable  of  which 
her  heart  could  now  attach  a  different  mean- 
ing to  what  it  had  done  when  she  first  read 
them — a  knock  came  at  the  door  of  the  libra- 
ry. It  was  only  her  own  maid,  but  Margue- 
rite's heart  fluttered  and  her  cheeks  glowed 
with  all  the  confusion  of  guilt  as  she  entered. 

"  Un  billet  pour  madame,"  presenting  on 
a  salver  one  of  those  notes  which  Margue- 
rite knew  was  from  Philip  at  a  glance. 

"I  see:  there  is  no  answer,"  she  said, 
with  forced  calmness :  and  Mademoiselle 
Eulalie  withdrew,  not  in  the  least  deceived, 
for,  though  all  the  world  may  be  blinded  in 
such  matters,  a  French  lady's  maid  never 
can ;  and  the  first  downward  step  in  a  wo- 
man's career  is  when  her  own  servants  sus- 
pect her. 

Marguerite  tore  open  the  letter.  There 
were  only  these  words : 


"  Marguerite,  The  time  has  now  come 
for  you  to  decide.  If  I  see  you  at  Mrs. 
Lorrimer's  on  Friday,  I  shall  consider  your 
sentence  of  last  night  is  recalled.  If  you  are 
not  there,  I  leave  England  alone,  the  follow- 
ing day." 

The  piper  fell  from  her  hand,  and  a  sharp 
pain  struck  at  Marguerite's  heart.  "  Cruel," 
she  murmured,  faintly — "  cruel  to  make  me 
decide  upon  our  separation,  and  force  it  upon 
me  so  soon.  Yet  it  must  be  so,  sooner  or 
later.  I  might  have  known  it  could  only  end 
thus;  it  is  better  finished  at  once."  Then 
she  laid  her  head  upon  the  table  and  wept 
with  one  of  the  wild  paroxysms  of  her  child- 
hood— as  she  had  not  wept  for  years  ;  and 
thus  a  full  hour  passed  away.  She  was  care- 
less if  the  servants  entered*  and  saw  her  so — 
careless  even  of  Mortimer's  return  :  only  the 
one  consciousness  of  losing  Philip  was  pres- 
ent to  her,  and  she  would  scarcely  have  heed- 
ed if  the  whole  world  had  been  present  to  wit- 
ness her  desolation. 

At  last,  slowly,  she  raised  her  pale  face, 
and  again  read  the  note  through,  but  with 
eyes  so  hot  and  painful  she  could  scarcely 
trace  even  Earnscliffe's  bold,  clear  writing. 
"If  I  am  not  at  Mrs.  Lorrimer's  he  will 
leave  England.  If  I  go — but — no — no,"  she 
cried,  vehemently,  as  a  wild  thought  of  hap- 
piness would  cross  her  brain  ;  "I  must  not 
meet  Philip  again.  If  I  am  even  there,  he 
will  consider  my  sentence  recalled.  I  shall 
see  him  no  more  then ;  he  will  leave  me  for 
ever,  and  my  whole  life  is  bound  up  in  his. 
Oh,  my  God !  pity  me,  and  guide  me  in  my 
weakness  and  my  anguish  !  " 

She  rose,  placed  Philip's  last  note  with 
all  the  others,  locked  the  drawers,  and  went 
into  her  own  room,  where  she  bathed  her 
face  and  strove  to  become  more  composed 
before  her  husband  saw  her,  for  it  was  al- 
ready nearly  the  time  for  his  return. 

As  it  happened,  he  came  home  rather  ear- 
lier than  usual  and  very  hungry :  and,  for 
almost  the  first  time  since  her  marriage,  Mar- 
guerite was  late  for  dinner.  Punctual  him- 
self to  a  fault,  nothing  disturbed  Mortimer's 
temper  more  than  the  want  of  punctuality  in 
others.  He  actually  spoke  harshly  to  her 
when  Marguerite  appeared,  at  five  minutes 
past  seven,  and  faltered  some  gentle  excuses 
for  keeping  dinner  waiting. 

"  Yes,  ma'am;  when  I,  with  all  my  busi- 
ness, can  always  be  in  time  for  everything,  I 
do  think  that  you,  with  nothing  but  your  own 
pleasures  to  think  of,  may  manage  to  remem- 
ber my  hours.  What  kept  you  out  so  late 
to-day,  pray  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  out  at  all,  sir.  I  felt 
very  unwell,  and  have  been  by  myself  ever 
since  you  lefb." 

"  Of  course  there  is  some  reason  always. 
What  made  the  carriage  late,  then,  in  calling 
for  me  yesterday  in  the  City?  You  were  so 
hurried  going  off  to  the  opera  last  night  that  I 


160 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


was  not  able  to  ask  you;  but    I    will  have 
more  order  in  my  house." 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  you  were  kept  waiting, 
Mr.  Mortimer ;  but  Georgy  came  to  see  me 
in  the  morning,  and  I  sent  her  home  in  the 
carriage,  which  1  suppose  caused  the  de- 
lay." 

"  Of  course,  if  one  of  those  women  could 
get  into  a  private  carriage  she  would  drive 
all  over  the  town  to  show  off! — your  own  sense 
might  have  told  you  that.  So  Georgy  has 
been  here  again,  eh?  and  you  were  all  affec- 
tion together,  I  suppose,  after  the  manner  of 
women." 

"I  received  her  in  the  spirit  with  which 
she  came.  It  is  much  better  there  should  be 
no  further  coldness  between  us." 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm,  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer? "  he  interrupted,  with  grim  politeness. 
*'  My  fish  is  cooling,  which  of  far  more  im- 
portance to  me,  you  know,  than  the  coolin 
of  young  ladies'  love."  With  which  sorry 
attempt  at  wit,  he  led  Marguerite  to  the 
dining-room. 

The  stately  meal  passed  off  in  absolute 
silence.  Mortimer  was  not  a  man  who  quick- 
ly recovered  himself  when  he  was  ruffled, 
and  Marguerite  was  too  nervous  and  weak- 
sprited  to  trust  herself  to  speak. 

When  the  servant  had  withdrawn  and  the 
wine  was  on  the  table,  Marguerite  began 
timidly.  44  Georgy  asked  me  to  take  her  to 
Mrs.  Lorrimer's^eife,  yesterday." 

'4  I  thought  she  came  to  ask  for  something 
besides  forgiveness,"  returned  Mortimer 
«4  What  did  you  say?  " 

*4  Oh,   she  seemed  so  earnest  about  it  — 
did  not  like  to  refuse." 

"  Well,  poor  thing  !  "—Mortimer's  tempe 
was  a  little  improved  after  his  first  glass  of 
port — 44  I  suppose  she  is  making  one  las 
desperate  effort  to  be  married.  She  is  look 
ing  very  old  and  thin ;  so  you  don't  mine 
taking  her.  A  good  foil,  ma'am,  eh  ?  " 

44  Well,  the  truth  is,  I  wanted  to  ask  yoi 
how  I  must  get  out  of  my  promise.     I  toh 
Georgy  I  would  go — and  now — and  now — " 
44  You  won't  take  her,  I  suppose?" 
"  Not  exactly  that.     I  have  changed  m 
mind,  and  don't  intend  to  go  myself." 
44  Why?" 

* '  Because  — the  fact  is — I  mean  I  hav 
changed  my  mind." 

"  A  mighty  sensible  reason,  upon  m 
word  !  4  I  mean — I  thought — I  have  changt 
my  mind.1  I  never  expected  fashionable  111 
would  make  you  silly  and  capricious  lik 
other  women,  Margin-rite;  but  I  see  it 
having  the  common  effect." 

*'  It  is  not  caprice,  indeed  it  is  not;  I  hav 
reasons." 

••  Let  me  hear  them." 

Never  did  a  tone  so  completely  repel  cor 

fidencc  ;   and  Marguerite  could  only  stamiiK 

Out  something  about  "  not,  feeling  well. 

44  It  is  not  that  at  all.  You  change  mere 
bec*uo«  you  have  promised  that  wretchc 


oman  to  take  her  among  your  grand  peo- 
e,  and  now  you  think  you'll  be  ashamed  of 
er  when  she  gets  there.     You  will  blush, 
>xt,  if  I  am  seen  driving  about  with  you." 
"ortimer  was  working  himself  up   with  his 
wn   words,   until   he  grew  fixedly  obstinate 
n    determining  to  oppose  Marguerite.     "  It 
ooks  monstrous  unkind  of  you,  ma'am,"   he 
>ursued,    "  and    I    must  say  is  very   unlike 
our   former   character.     Besides,    how  can 
ou  make  the  excuse  to  Mrs.   Lorrimer  of 
Iness,  when  she  sees  you  riding  about  every 
ay,  perfectly  well?     Her  husband  has  been 
client  of  mine  for  twenty  years,  and  I  de- 
re  you.  Marguerite,  not  to  be    capricious 
with  Her,   whatever  you   are    with   all  your 
ther  acquaintances." 

Very  well,  sir.  I  was  quite  wrong ;  but 
t  was  not  caprice,  I  assure  you.  I  will  go," 
nswered  Marguerite,  her  own  heart,  alas ! 
ot  combating  the  point  too  resolutely. 

"  And — if  this  important  question  of  going 
r  not  going  is  settled — I  shall  have  my 
leep,"  said  Mortimer,  stretching  out  his 
arge  feet,  and  shutting  his  eyes.  "  I  am 
ired,  ma'am,  and  my  cold  fish  has  disagreed 
with  me." 

And  Marguerite  stole  up  in  the  twilight  to 
he  library,  and  with  a  tremulous  hand 
wrote — 

'  I  shall  be  at  Mrs.  Lorrimer's  on  Friday  ; 
)ut  I  recall  nothing." 

Folded,  sealed,  directed  the  note  to  Earns- 
cliffe,  and  committed  it  to  the  velvet  paw  of 
Vlademoiselle  Eulalie. 


CHAPTER   L. 

EANRSCLIFFE  only  saw  Marguerite  once 
from  their  parting  at  the  door  of  the  opera 
until  the  day  of  Mrs.  Lorrimer's  fiie,  and 
then  but  for  a  moment,  as  he  was  walking 
with  Neville  in  Hyde  Park.  Slic  was  ou 
horseback,  and  bowed  to  Philip  as  she  pass- 
ed by;  but  with  a  visible  embarrassment  most 
unlike  her  accustomed  calm  demeanor. 

"By  Jove!  she  is  lovely,"  was  Neville's 
exclamation,  "  and  so  young  and  innocent 
looking.  Spare  her,  Phil,  she  is  too  good  to 
fall." 

"  Xeville — even  on  the  strength  of  our 
old  friendship — there  are  .some  things  I  will 
not  hear  you  say.  What  on  earth  <lo  you 
mean  bv  the  expression?  HOW  am  I  to 
4  spare  '  Mrs.  Mortimer?  " 

"  I  am  unhappily  quick  at  insight."  return- 
ed the  artist,  quietly;  "and  know  as  well 
how  things  stand  between  you  and  her  as  \«>u 
do  yourself.  Why  have  you  not  followed  the 
advice  you  asked  me  for,  and  leil  town?" 

"  1  have  acted  as  1  considered  right,"  re- 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


161 


plied  Philip,  coldly.  "Let  us  change  the 
subject.1' 

**  Oh,  as  you  please.  It  is  of  more  im- 
portance to  you  than  to  myself — of  more  im- 
portance to  her  than  to  either.  Apropos  de 
rien — (Jo  you  remember,  Phil,  how  we  walk- 
ed together  near  these  '  bowery  glades  of 
Kensington,'  as  somebody  calls  them,  six 
years  ago,  and  saw  Rose  Elmslie  driving 

along  in  Count  B 's  pony  phaeton  ?    You 

were  indignant  with  me  'about  some  love 
matter,  I  remember." 

"Poor  little  Rose!  what  became  of  her 
I  wonder?  " 

**  Poor  little  devil!  you  should  say.  Af- 
ter you  left  England  she  went  to  perdition 
•with  a  rapidity  greater  even  than  what  I  pre- 
dicted for  her.  Left  Count  B for  some 

one  else,  and  then  sank  lower  and  lower — 
took  to  drinking,  1  believe,  and  was  hissed 
off  the  stage." 

"Is  she  dead?1'  asked  Philip,  quickly. 
"  I  never  heard  this  before." 

"  You  never  remembered  to  ask,  probably. 
She  is  not  dead,  my  friend — or,  I  should 
rather  say,  was  not  so  last  winter.  A  few 
months  ago  I  was  returning  home  quickly  in 
the  dusk — after  a  long  walk  into  the  country 
to  mark  the  effect  of  the  red  sunset  over  the 
frozen  woods — and,  as  I  was  taking  a  short 
cut  through  some  of  the  back  streets  near 
the  Haymarket,  a  woman — pale,  haggard, 
desperate — touched  me  on  the  sleeve.  »I 
turned  round,  and,  pulling  my  arm  from  her 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  told  her,  in  no 
gentle  tone,  to  leave  me.  '  I  ask  you  for 
money,'  she  said,  '  because  I  am  starving. 
Do  you  refuse  ?  As  she  spoke  I  caught 

sight  of  her  face,  and  saw  that  it  was -" 

«  No— not  Rose?" 

*'  Yes,  it  was  Miss  Elmslie.  I  remember- 
ed her  directly.  I  scan  every  face  I  see  too 
deeply  for  it  to  fade  from  my  memory  :  and 
hers  was  not  one  to  forget.  She  had  a  pe- 
culiarly moulded  chin — do  you  recollect? — 
small, "and  with  the  slightest  dimple  in  the 
centre." 

"  Yes,  yes! — go  on." 
"  Well,  I  knew  her  by  that  in  a  moment. 
'  You  are  Rose  Elmslie,'  I  said ;  not  con- 
cealing my  horror,  as  you  may  suppose.  She 
started  aside  at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  and 
tried  to  push  her  way  through  the  coarse 
crowd  along  the  pavement ;  but  I  followed, 
and  entreated  her  to  stop — at  least,  accept 
such  assistance  as  I  could  offer.  'Leave 
me,'  she  said ;  '  1  shall  die  soon.  I  want  to 
see  none  of  you  again.'  Her  voice  was 
very  weak,  but  unnaturally  low  and  hollow. 
4  And  you  refuse  any  assistance  ?  '  I  repeat- 
ed. '  Yes,  from  you,'  she  answered.  *  You 
were  one  of  Earnscliffe's  friends,  let  me  pass 
on  ! '  and  again  I  lost  sight  of  her." 
**  And  you  saw  her  no  more  ?  " 
"  Yes,  as  I  passed  the  door  of  a  gin  pal- 
ace, a  few  minutes  later,  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  same  drooping  figure,  waiting  silently 


by  the  counter  for  one  of  the  glasses  of 
'  forgetfulness,'  that  a  smart-looking  woman 
was  serving  out.  Poor  wretch  ! " 

Philip  felt  sick.  "  Great  God,  what  a 
world  is  this  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  returned  Neville,  "  it  is  much  as 
we  make  it.  The  world  God  sends  us  into 
is  fair  in  itself;  men  create  sin,  and  call  the 
world  dark.  But,"  he  went  on,  "  Rose 
Elmslie  was  worthless,  in  heart,  the  first  day 
you  ever  saw  her — tainted  from  her  child- 
hood ;  her  misery  afterwards  is  the  natural 
conclusion  to  such  a  career,  and  is  nothing, 
in  its  blackest  horror,  compared  to  the  re- 
morse of  one  who  has  been  pure  and  without 
reproach.  No  hell,  you  know,  burns  so 
fiercely  as  that  of  the  fallen  angels  !  " 

"  Good  morning  to  you,"  said  Philip,  ab- 
ruptly. "  I  see  an  old  friend  whom  I  have 
not  met  for  years."  And  crossing  the  ring, 
he  left  his  friend  alone. 

For  a  moment  Neville  watched  him.  Then, 
raising  his  slouched  Italian  hat  upon  his 
forehead,  and  folding  his  arms  behind  him, 
he  marched  on.  Philip's  friend  was  an  old 
club  acquaintance  whom  he  had  afterwards 
met  abroad,  and  who  had  now  just  returned 
to  England ;  and,  glad  to  escape  from  Ne- 
ville and  his  own  thoughts,  Earnscliffe  took 
his  arm  and  they  walked  townwards  together. 
But  again  the  same  subject  was,  singularly 
enough,  forced  upon  him. 

After  some  minutes'  conversation  upon 
their  mutual  wanderings  since  they  parted, 
his  friend  remarked,  "  I  have  wished  to  see 
you  for  several  days,  but  have  been  too  en- 
gaged to  find  you  out,  and  never  could  see 
you  at  the  club.  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  don't 
belong  to  mine  now.  Nous  avons  change 
tout  cela!  and,  like  every  one  else,  your  pol- 
itics are  altering." 

"  Conforming  to  our  present  exigences." 

"  Oh.  that  is  the  term,  is  it?  However,  I! 
was  gomg  to  say,  I  have  often  heard  of  your 
name  and  of  more  than  your  political  prosr 
pects.  It  appears  that  you  are  au  mieux 
with  this  last  wonder,  la  belle  Mortimer. 
Your  old  luck." 

"You  should  rather  say  the  old  scandal 
of  English  clubs,"  replied  Earnscliffe,  \viik 
assumed  indifference.  "  Mrs.  Mortimer's 
father  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  am  intir 
mate  with  them." 

"  Them!  Is  the  husband  ever  seen  bjr 
mortal  eyes  ?  I  thought  the  venerable  old 
stock-broker  was  a  kind  of  myth  —  onljr 
heard  of  as  supplying  Madame  with  diar 
monds  and  his  name."  * 

"You  have  been  misinformed  throughout, 
then,"  said  Philip,  shortly. 

"  Eh,  mon  cher!  I  see  the  case  is  serious. 
When  a  man  denies  these  things  his  friends 
had  best  be  silent.  But  to  turn  to  another 
theme.  What  has  become  of  all  our  old 
friends  of  the  coulisses,  then?  I  suppose 
we  may  speak  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  them  now — I  have 


L62 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


other  interests  and  other  things  to  think  of," 
returned  Earnseliffe.  Neville's  story  of  Rose 
•was  too  fresh  for  him  to  risk  the  mention  of 
her  name. 

"  The  devil  you  have  !  Well,  after  being 
abroad  so  long  as  I  have,  one  does  not  know 
what  to  speak  of  on  one's  return.  One  man 
has  become  a  dissenter, — another  a  papist, 
a  third  a.Gladstonite — and  a  fourth  turns  up 
his  eyes  when  actresses  are  spoken  of,  and 
denies  his  bonnes  fortunes.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  Earnscliffe,  come  and  dine  with  me, 
and  let  us  talk  over  old  days." 

But  Philip  pleaded  an  engagement  —  as 
glad  to  escape  from  his  friend  as  he  was,  five 
minutes  before,  from  Neville — and,  tired  of 
the  sunshine  and  crowds  of  people,  returned 
to  the  solitary  room  at  his  hotel,  and  flung 
himself  on  his  sofa,  not  to  sleep,  although  he 
had  not  slept  for  two  nights,  but  think. 
Think — commune  with  his  own  heart  for  the 
last  time  before  the  overwhelming  tempta- 
tion which  he  knew  the  morrow — only  a  few 
hours  more — would  bring.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  he  received  Marguerite's  note  say- 
ing that  she  would  once  more  see  him,  he 
knew  that  she  was  his  (even  if  any  doubt  be- 
fore existed.)  The  contest  was  too  unequal 
to  last  much  longer;  her  exceeding  trust  in 
him,  her  ignorance  of  her  own  danger,  made 
the  result  but  too  certain.  And  again,  as  it 
had  done  so  often  years  before,  the  accusing 
thought  would  present  itself,  «*  You  are  be- 
traying God's  holiest  work,  the  innocence  of 
a  child." 

It  was  no  pleasant  thought !  He  rose  and 
paced  uneasily  about  his  room,  striving — not 
to  combat  with  the  wild  dictates  of  passion; 
they  had  remained  too  long  uncontrolled  to 
be  under  his  power  now — but  to  seek  out 
some  extenuation  with  which  to  satisfy  his 
own  conscience.  •*  She  was  mine,  in  reali- 
ty, years  ago,1'  he  said,  half  aloud.  "  Mine, 
heart  and  soul,  from  her  childhood.  What 
is  any  mere  conventional  tie  compared  to 
that  ?  If  I  left  her  now,  her  existence  would 
be  one  long-continued  misery — constantly 
endeavoring  to  fulfill  her  duty  as  another 
man's  wife — seeking  vainly  to  crush  what  is 
part  of  her  very  life — her  love  forme  !  Hut, 
if  this  remorse  Neville  speaks  of  is,  indeed, 
inevitable,  will  not  thai  be  a  bitterer  an- 
guish? for  one  so  pure,  to  ieel  that  she  has 

1,,. remit Pshaw  !  my  devotion  will  make 

her  forget  all  that — and  everything  beside — 
I  wish  the  dragging  hour*  would  wear  aw;iy  ! 
I  shall  lx-  calmer  when  all  is  decided.  Will 
to-morrow  never  eome  ?  v 

1  le  waited  impatiently  until  evening  ;  then, 
when  it  was  dusk,  unable  any  longer  to  bear 
tin-  oppn-vMon  of  solitude  and  of  his  own 
meditation'*,  he  ordered  his  horse  and  rode 
down  to  Wimbledon,  where  he  dismounted 
at  the  inn,  and  walked  on  towards  Morti- 
I'l.in.-,  but  without  entering  the  gates. 
He  §aw  nothing  of  Marguerite,  of  course; 
uhe  \\U3  alone  all  the  time  in  the  library, 


writing  in  her  journal — the  last  entry  she 
ver  made  there — but  it  was  enough  that  he 
breathed  the  same  air,  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  walls  that  enclosed  his  idol,  and  he 
lingered,  unnoticed  by   any  one,  until  near 
midnight,  and  then,  under  the  solemn  star- 
lit, rode  back  to  town. 
Not   quite    unnoticed,    Mr.    Grimes,    the 
butler,  had  been  out  on  honorable  business 
of  his  own,  and  calling  on  his  friend  the  inn- 
keeper, heard  that  Earnscliffe  had  left  his 
horse  there. 

"  And  not  come  to  us  !  "  pondered  Grimes. 
"  What's  up  now  ?  "  And  that  worthy  man 
dodged  and  peeped,  and  found  Philip,  and 
stole  after  him,  and  saw  how  he  looked  to- 
wards the  house,  and  paused,  and  half  spoke, 
and  walked  quickly  on,  only  to  return  and 
gaze  again.  And  then  Grimes  returned 
home,  well  pleased  with  what  he  had  seen, 
and  burning  to  relate  it  in  the  servant's 
hall. 

The  next  morning  shone  out  bright,  but 
not  sultry ;  and  by  the  afternoon  it  was  one 
of  those  sweet,  still  summer  days,  of  which 
there  are  about  six  in  the  English  year — the 
very  weather  for  an  out-of-door  ftte.  At 
four  o'clock  the  Mortimers'  carriage  called 
in  Tavistock  Street  and  found  Georgy  ready- 
dressed,  and  in  great  excitement  at  the  ex- 
pected dissipation,  and  the  pleasure  of  breath- 
ing the  same  atmosphere  and  looking  at  the 
same  trees  and  flowers  as  three  or  four  hun- 
dred "  great  people,"  during  a  whole  long 
evening. 

She  returned  to  Wimbledon  for  Marguer- 
ite, and  had  to  wait  for  some  time  in  the 
drawing-room,  before  she  appeared.  **  Mar- 
guerite had  had  a  headache,"  her  husband 
said,  "  and  had  begun  to  dress  late." 

"  Quite  unusual  to  see  you  at  home,  Mr. 
Mortimer ;  I  thought  you  were  always  in  the 
City  at  this  hour." 

"  I  am  not  very  well ;  I  have  not  felt  my- 
self for  the  last  week,  and  Maggy  persuaded 
me  that  I  ought  to  stay  at  home  and  be 
quiet.  However,  I  must  go  to  town  for  an 
hour  or  two  when  you  are  gone." 

**  Dear  Marguerite  has  not  been  looking 
very  well  either  lately." 

"  Dear  Marguerite  has  been  to  too  many 
parties,  Miss  de  Burgh.  She  will  be  as 
blooming  as  a  rose  after  I  take  her  to  the 
sea." 

"Oh!  I  am  delighted  to  hear  that  it  is 
nothing  but  fatigue,  that  made  her  so  pale, 
but  she  seemed  so  very  low  and  nervous." 

The  door  opened  and  Marguerite  entered, 
her  eompleximi  brighter  than  usual,  and  her 
whole  appearance  giving  the  most  din-et  de- 
nial to  GroT-jry's  kind  misgivings. 

"  Very  like  an  invalid,"  said  Mortimer, 
proudly.'  "  But,  Maggy,  dear,  how  oddly 
you  are  dressed  !  That  white  muslin  gown 
—  plain  little  white  bonnet,  and  no  orna- 
ments. What  i.<  this  new  fancy  lor  «!:• 
like  a  »chool-girl,  eh?" 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


163 


"  My  dress  is  very  handsome,"  returned 
Marguerite;  "  it  is  the  new-worked  muslin 
you  gave  such  a  price  for  last  week ;  and 
my  bonnet  has  only  just  arrived  from  Paris. 
You  know  it  is  my  French  fancy,  sir,  to  dress 
simply,  and  with  only  real  flowers  for  or- 
naments, at  a  summer  fete" 

44  Well,  you  always  look  well,  child,  how- 
ever you  dress.  At 'least,  here  are  fine 
flowers  for  you,"  and  he  presented  her  with 
a  bouquet,  composed  entirely  of  early  moss 
rose-buds  and  Cape  jessamine. 

**  How  lovely  !  "  said  Marguerite  ;  "  how 
exactly  my  taste.  It  looks  more  like  a 
French  bouquet  than  one  of  Campbell's  mak- 
ing." 

44  I  don't  know  that  it  is  his,"  replied 
Mortimer;  "  1  found  it  just  now  on  the  ta- 
ble, where  some  of  the  servants  placed  it, 
I  suppose." 

**  I  ordered  two — one  for  each  of  us," 
said  Marguerite.  "  What  is  Campbell  think- 
ing about !  "  She  rang  the  bell,  and  her 
page  answered  it,  with  two  gorgeous  bou- 
quets of  hot-house  flowers  on  a  salver. 

"Then,  who  brought  this  one?"  she  in- 
quired, coloring,  without  knowing  why. 

l'  That  was  left  by  a  servant  on  horseback, 
madam,  an  hour  ago.  There  was  no  mes- 
sage." 

'*  From  some  of  your  numerous  admirers, 
I  suppose  ?  "  said  Mortimer,  when  the  page 
left  the  room. 

44  One  who  knows  Marguerite's  taste  well, 
at  all  events,"  added  Georgy.  *'  Cape  jes- 
samine and  moss-roses  are  your  favorite 
flowers,  dear,  are  they  not  ?  " 

**  It  looks  mighty  well  with  your  white 
dress,  Maggy,  whoever  sent  it.  I  suppose 
you'll  neglect  my  rare  flowers  now  ?  " 

44  Which  shall  I  take,  sir?  I  don't  care, 
hesitated  Marguerite. 

44  Little  hypocrite  !  "  thought  Georgy. 

*4  Which  shall  you  take? — whichever  you 
like  the  best,  to  be  sure !  Perhaps,  the 
simple  flowers  suit  your  style  best." 

44  Old  idiot !  "  thought  Georgy.  44  Earns- 
cliffe  sent  it,  and  it  means  something  if  she 
wears  it." 

So  Marguerite  took  the  roses  and  Cape 
jessamine  for  herself,  and  placed  the  bouquet 
Georgy  did  not  choose  in  a  vase  on  the  table. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  husband.  4t  Do  you 
feel  really  better  now  ?  "  she  whispered.  44  ] 
scarcely  like  leaving  you,  if  you  are  unwell. 

44  I  am  much  better,  thank  you,?  returned 
Mr.  Mortimer,  who  hated  to  be  thought  ill. 
44  It  was  nothing ;  I  shall  go  into  town  for  an 
hour,  and  return  home  as  well  as  ever  for  my 
dinner.  That  reminds  me,  Maggy — what 
did  you  do  with  those  papers  I  gave  you 
yesterday  morning,  when  I  left  in  such  a 
hurry.  I  hope  you  have  them  safe  ?  " 

44  I   locked   them    up   with   my    letters," 
replied  Marguerite.     44Do  you  want  them? 
I  will  run  and  bring  them,  for  you  in  a  mo 
meat." 


She  went  up  to  the  library,  unlocked  the 

ecret   drawer,  where,    for   safety,  she    had 

placed   Mortimer's   papers,  took    them  out, 

nd   then — flurried    by   the   incident   of  the 

souquet,  and  thinking  nothing  of  what  she 

was  about — came    down    again   leaving    the 

drawer  open.     That   drawer   contained   her 

diary  and  Philip's  letters. 

44  Here  they  are,"  she  said  to  her  husband, 
4  quite  safe,  although  I  had  the  charge  of 
them." 

14  Thank  you,  my  dear.  And  if  you  will 
give  me  permission,  I  shall  go  and  sit  in  your 
own  sanctum  myself  for  an  hour.  It  is  the 
coolest  room  in  the  house  of  an  afternoon.'* 

Little  knowing  what  the  seemingly  trivial 
request  involved,  Marguerite  smilingly  assen- 
ted ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  and  Georgy 
were  on  the  road.  As  they  approached 
Richmond  they  passed,  and  were  passed,  in 
return  by  numbers  of  gay  carriages  and 
young  men  on  horseback,  all  on  their  way 
to  the/ft*. 

44  We  are  not  late,"  said  Georgy,  "  at.  all 
events.  Judging  from  the  numbers  of  peo- 
ple we  see,  there  can  be  scarcely  any  one 
there  yet." 

44  Oh  !  "  returned  Marguerite,  <4 1  knew  we 
should  be  in  good  time." 

44  What  hosts  of  people  you  know,  Mar- 
guerite !  Every  one  we  have  seen  yet  has 
bowed." 

44 1  know  4  everybody,'  as  the  English 
phrase  is.  I  am  literally  tired  of  bowing 
already." 

44  Who  is  that  girl  who  passed  us  last?  she 
is  pretty." 

44  Miss  Carlton  Vere.  She  is  considered 
the  beauty  of  the  season.  That  was  Digby 
Grant,  the  dandy,  par  excellence,  who  was 
riding  by  their  carriage." 

44  Yes,  I  know  him  by  sight:  he  has  four 
thousand  a-year ;  and  his  uncle  is  Dean  of 
Coventry,  and  his  cousin  is  member  for 

B .     I  should  like  to  be  introduced  to 

him,  dear." 

44 1  can  introduce  you  to  any  one  you  wish, 
Georgy ;  so  mind,  if  you  do  not  meet  many 
friends  of  your  own,  you  must  tell  me  whom 
you  wish  to  know." 

*4  Oh,  thank  you  !  the  Count  de  Montrav- 
ers  will  be  there,  however,  and  in  his  society 
I  naturally  care  for  no  other." 

44  Georgy,  I  begin  to  think  you  are  en- 
gaged to  the  Comte." 

"  One  need  not  be  engaged  to  everybody 
in  whose  society  one  finds  pleasure,'1  said 
Miss  de  Burgh,  tartly,  44  as  you  must  be  well 
aware." 

Marguerite  colored,  but  made  no  reply — 
she  seldom  did  to  Miss  Georgy's  speeches — 
indeed,  she  forgot  what  they  were  talking 
about  a  moment  afterwards.  She  was  look- 
ing nervously  &t  every  group  of  young  meo 
they  passed,  wondering,  hoping,  fearing 
whether  Philip  were  among  them.  But  she 
saw  nothing  of  him ;  and  they  soon  arrived 


161 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


at  Mrs.  Lorritner's  pretty  villa,  where  the 
crowd  of  carriages  and  people,  sounds  of 
imi  ic,  and  distant  marquees  in  the  grounds, 
ann  unced  the  gay  scene  that  was  going  on. 
Tne  entrance-hall  was  completely  wreath- 
ed with  flowers;  and  through  this  they  were 
ushered  to  a  room  on  the  ground  floor,  open- 
iair  upon  the  lawn,  where  Mrs.  Lorrimer  re- 
c  i\ed  her  guests,  before  they  dispersed  into 
the  grounds. 

A'a  guerite  presented  Georgy  with  her 
usui.1  quiet  grace ;  and  Miss  de  Burgh  was 
quite  flattered  at  the  well-bred  smile  of  Mrs. 
Corrlmer,  which  she  mistook  for  the  com- 
mencement of  an  acquaintance,  although  in 
truth  the  lady  never  thought  of  her  again 
from  that  moment  to  this. 

"  I  advise  you  to  take  refuge  in  the  gar- 
den-, Mrs.  Mortimer;  you  will  find  the 
lower  lawn  by  the  river  delightfully  cool, 
whi'e  tie  sun  remains  so  high.1' 

An  1  a  crowd  of  young  men  surrounded 
Marguerite,  all  anxious  to  dance  attendance 
on  the  celebrated  beauty,  who,  in  addition 
to  her  lovely  face  and  irresistible  charm  of 
iranner,  possessed  the  strongest  attraction  of 
all — that  of  being  the  fashion — and  the  fash- 
ion too,  with  so  notorious  and  fastidious  a 
man  as  EarnscliiFe  ! 

"  Mr.  Hollingsworth,  let  me  introduce  you 
to  my  cousin,  Miss  de  Burgh,"  said  Marguer- 
ite, addressing  a  boyish-looking  youth  with 
an  incipient  moustache,  who  colored  to  the 
eyes,  and  at  once  became  the  victim  of 
Georgy's  charms,  without  hope  of  release 
for  an  hour  or  two. 

"  Isn't  it  delightful?"  she  cried,  as  they 
followed  Marguerite  and  her  train  upon  the 
lawn.  '*  I  love  these  free,  wild  things  in  the 
open  air  so  much  better  than  balls ;  don't 
you?" 

"I  1  aven't  been  to  many — Cambridge  is 
«o  slow." 

"Cambridge!  dear  me!  Have  you  not 
left  college?"  (Mr.  Hollingsworth  looked 
about  fifteen.) 

"  No;  this  is  only  my  first  term." 

"  And  do  you  care  for  dancing?" 

"  1  have  only  danced  at  school,"  would 
have  been  the  truthful  reply ;  but  Mr.  Hol- 
lingsworth merely  said — *•  Not  very  much  ;  " 
and  Georgy  returned — "  Nor  she  cither. 
Keally  pleasant  conversation  was  far  better 
than  waltzing.  Did  Mr.  Hollingsworth  know 
where  that  darling  little  shady  walk  led  to? 
Could  it  be  to  the  river?  " 

And  (ieorgy  and  her  new  friend  soon  dis- 
appeared, nil  her.  it  must  be  confessed,  to 
Marguerite's  relief,  who,  though  perfectly 
above  the  vulgar  feeling  of  being  ashamed 
of  any  one,  was  not  anxious  to  have  Geor- 
gy's close  attendance  the  whole  day. 

She  walked  about,  and    frit  that'every  eye 
was  bent  upon  her  as  she  moved.     Among 
all  the   brilliant   women    there,  hers  was  th 
most    rer/tfrc/tie    toilette — hers    the   loveliest 
face.     Ne\cr,   in  her  first  season,    had    she 


created  a  greater  sensation  than  to-day; 
and,  of  course,  she  was  aware  of  it.  But  to 
lerself  the  whole  scene  was  without  interest, 
all  the  admiration  she  awakened  was  worth- 
ess.  Earnscliffe  was  not  there,  and  in  his 
sence  everything  beside  was  blank. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"  DEAR  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  said  a  kind  voice 
close  behind  her,  "  it  is  so  long  since  I  have 
seen  you  !  " 

Marguerite  turned  and  recognised  Lady 
Millicent  Gore,  one  of  her  earliest  friends. 
They  shook  hands,  and  Lady  Millicent  made 
room  for  her  on  the  seat  beside  herself. 

"  You  young  people  will  have  so  much 
lancing  this  evening,  you  must  reserve  your 
strength,  and  not  stand  or  walk  while  the  day 
continues  so  hot." 

"  I  never  dance  now,"  replied  Marguerite, 
"  but  I  am  delighted  to  have  found  a  place 
by  you." 

"Never  dance?"  repeated  her  friend. 
"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  renounced 
dancing  at  your  age  ?  You  used  to  be  so 
famous  for  your  waltzing.1" 

"  I  don't  think  I  really  cared  for  it;  but  I 
found  it  dull  at  balls  to  sit  out  and  watch 
others  dancing,  without  doing  so  myself.  I 
have  given  it  up  now,  I  am  not  very  strong." 

"You  look  well;  but  perhaps  you  are 
flushed  at  this  moment.  You  must  make 
your  husband  take  you  abroad  this  summer, 
to  get  over  all  the  fatigues  of  your  London 
season." 

"Oh,  that  is  already  settled.  We  are 
going  to  Brittany  in  a  few  weeks,  to  visit 
my  old  home  there." 

"  I  remember  you  told  me  all  about  your 
place  in  Brittany,  the  first  evening  I  ever 
*aw  you,  at  my  sister's  house.  Speaking  of 
that  evening  reminds  me  of  your  cousin,  the 
Marquis  de  St.  Leon ;  what  has  become  of 
him  lately  ?  " 

"  Gaston  has  returned  to  France:  he 
forms  one  of  the  new  government  already." 

"The  new  government?  1  thought  he 
was  an  ultra-Legitimist." 

"So  he  used  to  be,"  said  Marguerite, 
smiling,  "but —  -"  she  turned  while,  then 
Mushed  crimson.  In  the  distance  her  eves 
had  caught  one  glimpse  of  Philip.  "  What 
did  I  say  '.'  "  she  added,  vaguely. 

"  1'onr  thing!"  thought  Lady  Millicent. 
"  Is  it  possible,  her  cousin  intere.vted  her  so 
much?  with  such  a  husband,  however,  it  is 
not  wonderful."  And  delicately  changing  the 
subject,  she  began  speaking  of  some  of 
the  people  who  were  walking  up  and  down  on 
the  lawn  beliire  them.  "  Miss  (  'arltou  Vero 
is  very  pretty,"  she  remarked,  after  a  few 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


165 


deai  friends  had  been  discussed.     "But  it  is 
not  a  style  1  at  all  admire — do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  every  one  must  think  her  lovely," 
replied  Marguerite,  in  rather  an  absent  tone. 
44  Yes,  but  her  consciousness  of  her  own 
beauty  greatly  diminishes  its  charm.  She 
wants"  your  unaffectedness,  Mrs.  Mortimer. 
Look  at  her  now,  as  she  walks  with  Mr. 
Earnscliffe,  and  shakes  back  her  long  fair 
curls  while  she  looks  up  at  him.  Do  you 
suppose  it  is  a  case  of  serious  attention  ?  " 

Lady  Millicent  went  so  seldom  into  the 
world,  that  she  was  unaware  even  ^if  Mar- 
guerite and  Earnscliffe  were  acquainted ; 
and  continued  making  the  most  unconscious 
remarks  upon  his  apparent  devotion  to  Miss 
Carlton  Vere.  **  He  is  really  distinguished- 
looking,"  she  said.  "  Not  only  his  face 
handsome,  but  his  manner,  and  whole  air  are 
so  unlike  most  young  men  that  one  sees.  Do 
you  not  agree  with  me  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Earnscliffe  is  good-looking,"  an- 
swered Marguerite. 

44  Good-looking  !  my  dear,  what  very  qual- 
ified praise.  Of  course  you  have  read  his 
writings.  Are  you  not  warmer  in  your  ad- 
miration of  them,  than  their  author?  Oh! 
you  are  acquainted  with  him  then,"  as 
Earnscliffe  passed,  and  took  off  his  hat  to 
Marguerite  ;  "  now  tell  me  what  his  conver- 
sation is  like  ?  " 

And  Marguerite  had  to  talk  of  Philip  for 
a  good  half-hour  to  Lady  Millicent  Gore 
(who  felt  an  especial  interest  in  authors), 
and  all  this  time  to  watch  Philip  in  earnest, 
and  apparent  devoted  conversation  with  Miss 
Carlton  Vere ;  while  that  young  creature 
smiled  and  blushed,  and  shook  back  her 
curls  more  playfully  each  time  as  she  passed 
the  spot  where  Marguerite  was  seated. 

"  The  sun  is  pouring  full  upon  us,"  she 
cried  at  last — too  weary  and  impatient  to 
listen  even  to  the  gentle  Lady  Millicent. 
•*  Will  you  not  change  your  position  ?  " 

44  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  like  this  place  ; 
and  I  don't  feel  the  sun  in  the  least.  But  1 
will  keep  you  no  longer ;  you  have  alread}1 
devoted  nearly  an  hour  to  an  old  woman — 
which,  for  the  belle  of  a  fete  like  this,  is  in- 
deed sufficient." 

So  Marguerite  rose,  and  taking  the  arm  o 
Digby  Grant — who  had  been  hovering  pa- 
tiently near  her  for  some  time — walked  wit! 
him  towards  the  river.  He  was  an  agreea- 
ble man,  in  spite  of  his  affectation,  and  only 
too  anxious  that  Mrs.  Mortimer  should  con- 
sider him  so ;  but  she  was  strangely  absen 
to-day,  and  replied  a  travers  to  his  pretties 
speeches  while  he  led  her,  unconscious  how  fa 
she  was  going,  to  a  remote  part  of  the  lawn 
where,  as  yet,  none  of  the  others  had  pene 
trated. 

44  Would  you  like  to  escape  this  terrific 
sun,  Mrs.  Mortimer? — that  rustic  boat-houst 
looks  inviting." 

"As  you  please;  yes,  certainly."  An 
Marguerite  entered,  really  glad  to  be  awaj 


rom  the  crowd,  and  only  wishing  her  com- 
>anion  would  leave  her. 

44  Pray  don't  let  me  take  you  away  from 
iverybody,  Mr.  Grant.  I  am  so  tired,  I 
hall  remain  here  for  half-an-hour ;  but  do 
eturn  to  the  lawn  without  me.  You  may 
:ome  back  for  me  as  late  as  you  please." 

44  I  am  only  too  thankful  to  be  away,1' 
le  replied  ;  44  these  odious  mixed  things  are 
ny  horror — people  of  all  kinds — you  don't 
enow  who  is  who !  The  last  time  I  was  at 
Mrs.  Lorrimer's  she  had  some  dreadful  Syri- 
in  wretches,  whom  I  remembered  as  shoe- 
jlacks  in  their  own  country.  To-day  there 
are  still  worse  atrocities.  Actually  I  saw 
hat  man,  calling  himself  the  Count  de  Mon- 
ravers — a  man  who  would  be  received  in  no 
decent  society  in  France  ;  but  whom  English 
aeople  will  invite,  and  listen  to,  while  he 
lescants  on  the  regeneration  of  England. 
[  had  only  one  object  in  coming  here,  Mrs. 
Mortimer." 

14  Could  you  not  shelter  me  from  the  sun? 
Thank  you.  It  fell  full  upon  my  face." 

14  Let  me  hold  your  parasol?  No.  Your 
bouquet,  then — your  hands  are  full ;"  and  he 
took  Marguerite's — Philip's  —  bouquet,  and 
nhaled  its  fragrance  with  great  gusto. 

44  Pray  do  not  shake  them  to  pieces,"  she 
said  at  last.  '4See,  one  rose-bud  has  fallen 
out  already." 

44  Which  I  may  keep  for  my  guerdon,"  he 
replied,  picking  it  up,  and  preparing  to  place 
it  in  his  coat. 

44  No,  no,"  interrupted  Marguerite,  eager- 
ly ;  44  give  me  the  flower,  if  you  please,  and 
I  can  replace  it.  I  never  give  away  my  flow- 
ers." 

44  Are  they  so  valued  for  their  own  sakes, 
or  for  that  of  the  donor  ?  "  in  rather  a  piqued 
tone  at  her  refusal. 

44  For  their  own  sakes,"  replied  Marguer- 
ite, coloring;  44  flowers  are  my  passion — 
I " 

Just  then  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  well- 
known  step,  advancing  on  the  gravel  path 
beside  them  ;  and,  in  another  moment,  Earns- 
cliffe's  tall  figure  was  visible.  He  was  alone, 
and  after  glancing  at  her  and  her  companion, 
walked  slowly  on  with  a  very  slight  saluta- 
tion, and  his  face  calm  and  grave  as  usual. 

44  He  must  believe  that  I  am  happy  with- 
out him,"  thought  Marguerite.  44  That  I 
am  encouraging  the  idle  attentions  of  anoth- 
er already."  And  this  idea,  that,  to  many 
women  would  have  been  one  of  entire  satis- 
faction, gave  her  such  intolerable  pain,  that 
she  rose  hastily,  and  proposed  returning  to- 
wards the  house  at  once. 

Meantime,  Georgy  had  k>st  Mr.  Hollings- 
worth,  who,  after  a  series  of  mariceuvers, 
contrived  to  slip  away  from  her  among  the 
crowd;  and,  for  about  half-an-hour,  failing 
to  spy  out  Marguerite,  she  had  wandered 
along,  as  is  the  habitude  of  obscure  persons 
at  large  assemblies,  unnoticed  by  anybody, 
except  those  few  who  languidly  raised  their 


166 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


eye-glasses,  and  classed  her  among  I\Irs. 
Lorrimer's  "  oddities.1"  At  length,  she  met 
her  friend,  the  Cointe  de  Montravers,  and 
seized  upon  him  with  an  avidity  that  should 
have  been  most  flattering  to  the  foreigner. 
Like  Miss  de  Burgh,  however,  he  was  on  the 
look-out  for  great  people  himself,  and  he 
•was  not  particularly  anxious  to  be  the  atten- 
dant of  an  unknown  person  of  two-and-thirty, 
nor  nearly  so  empress^  in  his  manner  as  when 
they  took  morning  walks  together  in  the 
mystic  regions  of  Brunswick  Square ;  and  he 
passed  on,  after  a  short  conversation.  So 
Georgy  was  again  discomfited  ;  and,  when, 
at  length,  she  joined  Marguerite,  was  not  in 
the  best  of  tempers. 

"  Where  in  the  world  have  you  been?" 
she  exclaimed.  "  Since  I  saw  you  disappear 
in  the  distance,  two  hours  ago,  with  Digby 
Grant,  I  have  never  met  you.  It  appears  lie 
is  your  adorer,  after  all,  not  Philip  Earns- 
cliffe,  who,  I  can  assure  you,  has  been  de- 
voted to  that  lovely  >  iss  Carlton  Yere  the 
•whole  afternoon.  I  have  met  them  a  dozen 
times  together.  But  how  pale  you  look. 
Can't  you  introduce  me  to  some  one  as  you 
promised  you  would  ?  Mr.  Grant  for  in- 
stance." 

"  He  is  talking  to  Mrs.  Lorimer  at  this 
moment.  Tell  me  the  names  of  any  other 
people  you  wish  to  know." 

And  Marguerite — weary  and  spiritless 
though  she  was — tried  to  exert  herself  for 
Miss  de  Burgh  ;  and,  ever  ready  to  please  an- 
other walked  about  with  her,  and  introduced 
her  to  everybody  she  wished,  even  to  Digby 
Grant,  who  raised  one  eyebrow  and  bent  his 
head  just  sufficiently  to  move  his  topmost 
curl  at  the  introduction.  But  Georgy  was 
radiant  with  smiles,  and  soon  appended  her- 
self to  some  of  her  new  acquaintance  with 
Fiich  determined  pertinacitv,  that  Marguerite 
felt  she  was  fairly  disposed  of  the  remainder 
of  the  evening,  and  also  that  she  would  have 
to  wait  many  a  long  hour  before  Miss  de 
Burgh  would  choose  to  leave. 

The  dancing  was  now  at  its  height;  and 
the  two  large  marquees  on  the  lawn,  brilliant- 
ly lighted,  were  thronged  with  dancers  and 
lookers-on  ;  while  manv  there  were  belter 
plea.-ed  to  wander  about  the  grounds,  where 
hundreds  of  colored  lamps  glimmered  in  the 
<]ark  summer  night.  Marguerite  was  stand- 
ing somewhat  apart  from  the  entrance  to  tin- 
principal  tent,  and  lor  the  moment  unattended  ; 
her  head  turned  away  from  the  light  and 
nm>ic,  towards  the  silent  river  beneath, 
•when,  close  beside  her,  she  heard  Philip's 
Voice. 

"  Mrs.  .Mortimer — Marguerite,  may  I  dare 
to  oiler  you  my  arm  '  " 

Sin-  started,  and  her  heart  beat  so  violently 
hlie  could  not  answer.  Then  she  placed  her 
hand,  almost  without  knowing  that  she  did  so, 
upon  his  arm. 

"Can    \  on   span-  ii\c  minute*  from  all  this 


gay  scene  ;  from  all  your  admirers,  while  yon 
say  irood-bye  to  an  old  friend  ?  " 

';' Philip!"  (The  altered  tone  of  her 
voice  shocked  him.)  "  I  am  very  weary; 
I  hate  all  this  crowd  and  glare  ;  and  I  should 
have  left  already,  but " 

He  led  her  down  a  narrow  sidewalk — the 
same  Georgy  and  Mr.  Hollingsworth  had 
previously  discovered — and,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, they  were  as  completely  alone  as 
though  they  were  at  Kersaint.  Only  the 
sounds  of  the  distant  music  were  there  to  re- 
mind them  of  the  scene  they  had  left.  The 
warm,  soft  air — the  odor  "from  the  garden 
flowers — the  uncertain  light  of  the  stars — 
the  presence  of  each  other — was  all  they 
were  awake  to.  In  those  few  minutes,  the 
world,  and  all  belonging  to  it,  were  forgot- 
ten. Marguerite's  hand  was  upon  his  arm  ; 
she  heard  his  voice  again — more  dear  even 
from  those  few  days  of  separation — and  her 
life,  that  had  just  before  seemed  so  void, 
was  again  a  glowing,  delicious  heaven. 

"  You  are  pale  now,  Marguerite !  and 
yet  so  flushed  a  few  hours  ago ;  are  you  not 
well  ?  " 

"Did  you  really  notice  me  before  this ? 
I  thought  you  were  too  much  occupied  to 
think  of  my  appearance." 

"  You  could  not  really  believe  it.  I  might 
as  well  affect  jealousy  of  the  butterflies  that 
have  beeti  hovering  about  you — of  Digby 
Grant,  because  I  saw  you  with  him  alone, 
when  he  was  holding  my  flowers  for  you. 
Marguerite,  our  feelings  are  too  deep  for 
these  small  fears." 

"Your  flowers?  they  were  indeed  from 
you,  then?"  and  the  hand  that  held  them 
unconsciously  pressed  them  closer. 

"  Did  you  not  feel  that  they  were  from 
me?  Believing  they  were  from  a  stranger 
would  you  have  worn  them?  Oh!  do  not 
let  us  attempt  any  longer  to  dissemble. 
Marguerite,  the  hour  has  come  when  Ihnt 
has  passed  for  ever.  I  received  your  note 
telling  me  to  be  here,  and  I  am  here.  My 
conduct  to-day  has  only  been  assumed  to 
mislead  the  idle  world,  who  already  may 
have  spoken  of  the  attachment  which  1  have 
vainly  tried  to  hide " 

"  But  I  told  you  to  hope  nothing — that  I 
retracted  nothing.  I  came  here  that  this 
might  be  our  last  meeting.  Oh,  Philip!  you 
do  not  know  the  agony  that  I  have  passed 
through  since  1  saw  you,  how  1  have  striven 
and  prayed  —  as  much  for  your  sake  as  my 
own — to  overcome  this  love  that  can  only 
end  in  misery.'' 

"And  in 'vain.  Marguerite!  tell  me  so; 
whatever  happens,  let  me  once  more  hear 
from  tho>e  dear  lips  that  you  love  mi — once 
more."1 

They  had  now  reached  the  river,  whose 
liquid  ma><es  floated  by  in  their  black  still- 
neM  beneath  them,  and  Marguerite  shudder- 
ed as  the  chilly  air  from  the  water  .struck  up- 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


167 


on  her  heated  cheek.  She  shrank  to  Philip's 
side,  and  his  blood  became  fire  as  he  felt  her 
slight  form  clinging  as  it  were  to  him  for  pro- 
tection. He  thought  of  the  world's  cold 
breath,  already  raised  to  wither  Marguerite's 
good  fame,  and — strange  sophistry  ! — felt 
that  his  honor  constituted  him  her  protector. 

"  Philip,  you  could  not  urge  me  thus,  if  it 
were  wrong.  You  are  so  much  better  and 
wiser  than  I — Philip  !  will  it  really  make  you 
happier  if  I  once  more  tell  you  the  secret  of 
my  existence — the  secret  that  will  make  my 
whole  life  a  blank  evermore  ?  Then  hear  me 
— I  love  you  still  as  I  did  at  Kersaint!  " 

Her  voice  sank  to  the  lowest  whisper,  but 
Earnscliffe  heard  it  still.  He  seized  both 
her  cold  hands  suddenly  within  his  own — 

"  Marguerite  !  " — (his  voice,  too,  was  low, 
and  altered  in  its  sound  from  what  she  had 
ever  known  it  before) — "  let  this  moment, 
then,  decide  our  destiny.  You  say  that  you 
love  me  still — that  that  love  will  make  your 
whole  life  a  blank  without  me — be  mine, 
then  !  I  know  the  sacrifice  I  ask  of  you — 
the  sacrifice  of  good  name,  of  position,  of 
all  that  women  hold  dear,  and  that  against 
this,  my  passionate  love,  my  utter  devotion, 
are  all  that  J  have  to  offer.'  Come  with  me 
to  another  country,  where  in  our  love  all  the 
disappointments  of  the  past  shall  be  forgot- 
ten, and  we  will  live  for  each  other  alone ;  " 
and  his  arm  was  thrown  round  her  trembling 
form. 

But  Marguerite  even  yet  shrank  back. 
*'  Let  me  go  !  "  she  whispered,  very  faintly. 
**  Let  me  return  to  my  home —  to  my  hus- 
band ;  I  will  not  bring  dishonor  upon  him  !  " 

"  As  you  will,  madam  !  "  He  released  his 
hold  instantly.  "  I  was  wrong  in  supposing 
that  for  my  love  you  could  so  readily  give  up 
your  fair  fame.  You  speak  of  his  honor, 
and  forget  that  I,  too.  should  forfeit  every 
ambition,  every  prospect  in  life,  and  deem 
their  loss  as  nothing  if  I  possessed  you. 
Oh,  Marguerite  !  " — his  voice  sinking  again 
into  its  deepest,  most  passionate  tenderness 
— "forgive  me!  I  know  not  what  I  say. 
I  cannot  lose  you  !  Oh,  Marguerite,  Mar- 
guerite !  remember  all  the  years  that  we 
have  loved  each  other — that  you  were  mine, 
in  heart  at  least,  before  your  husband  ever 
knew  you — that  years  ago  you  promised  me 
never  to  love  another." 

"  Philip,  I  have  kept  my  word." 

"Then  redeem  it  now — now,  when  all  my 
happiness  in  this  life  depends  upon  your  de- 
cision." 

"Philip — ah,  may  God  help  me! — I  can 
have  no  will  but  yours." 

He  folded  her  to  his  breast ;  he  knew  that 
she  was  his.  But,  even  at  that  moment,  he 
could  hear  the  unnatural  throbbing  of  her 
heart,  and  mark  that  the  face  upturned  to  his 
was  one  of  agonv.  The  hell  of  a  fallen  an- 
gel had  already  begun.  With  the  first  breath 
of  guilt  a  dark  shadow  had  fallen  across  Mar- 
guerite's love. 


"Mine,  mine  !"  whispered  Earnscliffe, 
tenderly.  Death  only  shall  part  us  now." 

"  Death  !  "  she  repeated,  with  a  shudder ; 
"  yes,  you  are  right  to  speak  of  death " 

"  When  years  of  radiant  life  are  spread 
before  us  ?  In  Italy,  in  the  sweet  south,  my 
Marguerite,  we  shall  at  length  be  happy  to- 
gether— happy  as  we  should  have  been  long 
ago,  if  fate  had  not  divided  us." 

"Aye,  fate!"  she  answered,  dreamily; 
"  there  was  an  evil  fate  in  my  mother's  des- 
tiny and  in  mine.  Both  married  where  they 
could  not  love ;  she  died  young,  as  I  shall." 

"  My  own  love,  do  not  speak  of  dying. 
In  my  new  born  joy,  do  not  cause  me  the 
torture  of  thinking  that  I  could  ever  lose 
you." 

"  Philip,  I  am  yours — wrong,  lost  though 
I  may  be — I  am  yours.  I  shall  never  part 
from  you  now.  My  love  is  interwoven  with 
my  very  life,  and  can  only  end  with  it.  But 
it  will  not  be  for  very  long.  Something  tells- 
me,  even  at  this  moment,  that  I  shall  die. 
When  the  summer  comes  again,  and  you  are 
breathing  another  warm  night  such  as  this, 
you  will  be  alone :  but  you  will  still  think 
fondly  of  me,  still  hold  my  remembrance 
dearer  than  all  other,  and  in  that  thought  is 
almost  happiness  sufficient." 

She  Jboked  up  at  him  with  one  of  those  in- 
effably sweet  smiles  that  I  never  saw  on  any 
countenance  but  hers,  and  laid  her  head  upon 
his  arm.  The  gesture  was  so  natural,  so  in- 
nocent, so  like  Marguerite,  so  unlike  guilt, 
that,  Earnscliffe's  conscience  recoiled  even 
yet  from  her  betrayal.  "  My  life's  devotion 
must  atone  to  her  for  all  she  loses,"  was  his 
inward  resolution  while  he  bent  over  the  pale, 
upturned  face. 

As  though  any  human  devotion  could  make 
atonement  for  sin  to  a  nature  like  hers  ! 

"  How  frightfully  ill  Mrs.  Mortimer 
looks  ! "  said  one  of  a  group  of  friends,  when, 
leaning  on  Philip's  arm,  she  re-entered  the 
ball-room  ;  "  and  so  wild  and  haggard  !  See 
how  her  eyes  wander  round,  as  though  she 
saw  nothing,  and  how  she  clings  to  him ! 
Things  are  approaching  a  crisis." 

"Oh,  I  have  foreseen  it  long;  indeed,  I 
have  not  taken  my  Sophia  Jane  at  all  latter- 
ly, when  I  called  at  the  Mortimers'.  From 
the  first  moment  I  saw  her  and  Earnscliffe 
together,  I  -knew  how  it  would  end:  there 
was  something  so  bold-looking  about  her  to 
me." 

"Mrs.  Mortimer  bold-looking!"  chimad 
in  Digby  Grant,  who,  though  a  rival,  was 
more  generous  than  female  friends.  "  She 
looks  more  like  dying  than  anything  else  at 
this  moment ;  but  who  could  ever  call  such  a 
face  as  hers  bold  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Mr.  Grant!  men  always 
admire  that  style  of  person.  I  cannot  ap- 
preciate the  excessive  innocence  of  a  married 
woman  who  carries  on  these  kinds  of  desper- 
ate flirtations.  If  I  were  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  I 


168 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


should  dislike  having  the  denouement  at  my 
house — for  a  denouement  there  is  I  am  cer- 
tain." 


Digby 


She  is  fainting,  by  George  !  "  exclaimed 


,ook  at  Mr.  EarnsclinVs  face  !  What 
a  disgusting  exhibition  !  "  broke  in  two  or 
three  plain  young  women  ;  and  soon  a  score 
of  different  stories  were  in  circulation — 
"Earnscliffe  had  said  something  to  Mrs. 
Mortimer,  which  made  her  faint  dead  away 
on  the  spot !  " — "  Jealous  of  his  attention  to 
Miss  Carlton  Vere  !  " — "  Fainted  as  Earns- 
cliffe  was  running  away  with  her  in  her  own 
carriage  !  " — and  so  on. 

But  Marguerite  knew  and  heard  nothing. 
She  was  in  a  deep  swoon  ;  and  when  at  length 
she  partially  recovered,  she  found  herself  in 
the  open  air,  with  only  her  kind  friend,  Lady 
Millicent,  beside  her. 

"  Where  am  I? — Is  he  here?11  were  her 
first  incoherent  words. 

"  You  have  fainted,  my  dear  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer— you  are  ill,"  said  a  gentle  voice,  which 
Marguerite  at  once  recognised.  "  As  soon 
as  you  have  recovered,  you  had  better  return 
home  at  once." 

"  Home  !  "  said  Marguerite  wildly.  "  No, 
no — not  home!  anywhere  but  there.  I  can- 
not return  home  !  " 

Lady  Millieent's  face  became  very  grave. 

"Can  all  this  possibly  arise  from  any  re- 
collection of  her  cousin  ? "  she  thought. 
"Everyone  is  mentioning  Mr.  EarnsclinVs 
name  ;  but  this  morning  they  seemed  barely 
acquainted.1' 

"Dear  me!  what  is  all  this  scene,  Mar- 
guerite ?"  cried  a  loud,  woman's  voice. 
"  Have  you  really  fainted?  " 

"  Georgy,  let  us  go.     I  am  very  ill." 

"Go?  at  nine  o'clock?  Thank  you,  my 
dear  !  I  have  made  a  great  many  agreeable 
acquaintances,  and  I  have  not  the  least  idea 
of  going." 

Lady  Millicent  looked  round  with  perfect 
horror  at  Miss  de  Burgh. 

"  Are  your  movements  controlled  by  that 
— lady?"  she  whispered  to  Marguerite. 

"  I  brought  her  with  me.  I  believe  I 
must  wait  until  she  is  ready.  But  I  am,  in- 
deed, weary  and  ill,  Georgy,"  she  added, 
looking  imploringly  towards  her. 

"  Can  I  take  care  of  your  friend?  "  inter- 
poM-d  Lady  Millicent,  overcoming  her  re- 
imgnancc  to  the  friend's  appearance,  in  her 
kind  feeling  to  Marguerite. 

"Oh,  Lady  Millicent  !  you  are  too  kind." 

"Lady  Millicent  "  sounded  s\veetto  Geor- 
py's  cars,  and  she  became  ajl'eetionate  imme- 
diately th  it  she  discovered  the  little,  plainly- 
•  •'1  old  lad\  was  an  earl's  daughter. 

"  Dear  Marguerite,  if  you  are  indeed  ill, 
of  cout>e,  we  will  go  at  once.  I  thought  it 
was  merely  ;l  passing  \veakin-s 

"  My  chaperonage  and  escort  are  entirely 
At  your  friend'.-  >er\ice,  again  remarked  Lady 
Millicent.  "  Only  let  me  see  you  safely 


into  your  carriage  at  oi.ce.  You  are  not  in 
a  state  to  remain  one  moment  in  yonder 
crowded  rooms."  And  a  servant  was  sent  to 
order  Mrs.  Mortimer's  carriage ;  while 
Georgy,  with  many  smiles,  tried  to  ingrati- 
ate herself  with  her  new  acquaintance. 

"Dear  Marguerite  was  not  very  strong, 
did  faint  sometimes ;  the  cool  drive  home 
would  refresh  her ;  it  was  so  kind  of  Lady 
Millicent.  to  offer  to  chaperone  herself!  "  and 
so  on ;  during  all  of  which  Marguerite  still 
clung  weakly  to  her  friend's  arm,  whose  dis- 
gust at  Miss  Georgy 's  selfishness  increased 
with  every  word  she  uttered. 

Earnscliffe  was  hovering  near,  though 
afraid  to  attract  attention  by  approaching 
closer ;  but  when  the  carriage  was  announced 
he  advanced  and  offered  Marguerite  his 
arm. 

"  Good-night,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mortimer. 
I  shall  come  and  see  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  Good-night,  Lady  Millicent!  "  lingering 
wistfully,  as  they  shook  hands.  "  You  have 
been  very  kind  to  me.  Good-night."  Mar- 
guerite felt  they  were  parting  for  the  last 
time,  and  her  voice  was  thick  and  husky. 
"  Good-night,  Georgy." 

And  then,  threading  their  way  through  the 
crowds  who  pressed  round  them,  to  stare 
upon  her  altered  face,  Earnscliffe  led  Mar- 
guerite to  the  carriage. 

"  Farewell,  my  own  love  !  "  he  whispered, 
as  she  took  her  place.  "  We  shall  meet,  to- 
morrow, and  part  no  more — only  a  i'ew 
short  hours." 

"  Oh,  Philip !  a  strange  fear  is  upon  me. 
I  tremble  at  being  alone,"  she  replied. 

He  bent  forward,  as  though  to  present  her 
bouquet,  which  he  still  held,  and  pressed  his 
lips  upon  her  hand.  It  was  icy  cold,  too 
cold,  even  for  his  kiss  to  warm  it,  and  he 
felt  that  she  was  trembling  violently. 

"  Drive  home  as  fast  as  possible,"  he  said 
to  the  coachman.  "  Mrs.  Mortimer  has 
been  taken  ill."  And  in  another  moment  he 
watched  the  carriage  disappear  which  bore 
her  from  him. 

Then  Philip  returned  to  the  ball-room, 
where  he  paid  so  much  attention  to  Miss 
Carlton  Vere,  that,  people  began  to  think, 
after  all,  they  had  been  mistaken  in  their 
suspicions;  and  Miss  (leorgy  reflected  with 
pleasure  how  she  would  tell  Marguerite  that 
Mr.  Karnsclill'e  seemed  to  enjoy  himself  a 
vast  deal  better  after  her  departure. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

AI.MNK,  through  the  silent  night,  Marguei 
itc    drove    home.      The    lights,    the   confused 
sounds   of  music,  were  still   flashing  through 
her  heated  brain  ;  but,  clear  above  them  all. 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


169 


rang  Philip's  last  words — "To-morrow,  and 
we  shall  part  no  more ;  "  while  ever,  like  a 
death-knell  to  that  tumultuously  happy 
thought,  her  own  heart  echoed — "To-mor- 
row, and  no  more  peace ;  to-morrow,  and  I 
shall  no  longer  dare  to  speak  of  my  childhood 
or  my  father.  My  father  !  "  and  the  remem- 
brance of  his  poor,  passionless  face,  of  his 
perfect  integrity,  his  unwavering  principle, 
awed  her  into  a  sense  of  her  own  guilt, 
deeper  than  what  any  thought  of  Mortimer 
could  have  awakened. 

As  she  proceeded,  every  object  by  the 
way-side  took  the  form  of  something  connec- 
ted with  Kersaint.  The  waving  branches  of 
the  Park  trees,  overhanging  the  road,  seem- 
ed to  her  excited  imagination  the  ancient 
Breton  forests ;  the  groups  of  laborers,  re- 
turning late  from  hay-making,  bore  sem- 
blance to  the  peasants  she  had  not  seen  for 
years.  She  passed  a  cottage  garden,  and 
some  white  lilies,  shining  calmly  in  the  moon- 
light, brought  back  the  altar  in'the  old  cathe- 
dral, decked  for  early  mass.  And  all  rose 
up  in  judgment  against  her. 

"But  it  is  for  him!'1'1  she  exclaimed,  in 
her  terror  at  the  invisible  presence  she  felt 
around — as  though  the  mention  of  his  name 
could  overpower  that — "  to  be  with  Philip, 
who  is  dearer  than  life  itself!  Whatever  the 
sin,  whatever  the  misery,  he  wishes  it;  and 
I  have  no  other  will." 

Then  she  leant  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
closed  her  eyes :  she  could  not  bear  the 
light  of  the  stars  to-night — even  they  seem- 
ed watching  her  reproachfully.  And,  in 
addition  to  this  tension  of  mental  pain,  there 
was  a  fiery  sensation  in  her  brain,  a  quick, 
uneven  throbbing  at  her  heart,  different  to 
what  she  had  ever  experienced  before,  and 
which  heightened  into  actual  agony  as  she 
approached  home. 

To  meet  Mortimer  again — once  more  to  lay 
her  head  beside  the  old  man's  trusting  heart, 
and  know  that  on  the  morrow  she  would  leave 
him,  in  loneliness  and  dishonor — was  some- 
thing so  utterly  abhorrent,  so  foreign  to 
Marguerite's  nature,  that,  even  under  the 
strong  sway  of  irresistible  passion — with 
Philip's  kiss  still  warm  upon  her  hand — she 
shrank  loathingly  from  herself  and  the  task 
before  her. 

"  Better,"  she  thought,  "  never  to  see  him 
again — never  more   eflter  the  home  he  has 
given  me — than  thus  betray  him  to  the  last !  " 
And  once  the  desperate  purpose  half  arose 
of  bidding  the  coachman  drive  on  to  town — 
anywhere  except  home.     But  where  could 
she  go  ? — to  Philip  ? — she  revolted  instantly 
from  the  thought.     To  Lady  Millicent  Gore  ? 
What  pretext  could  she  form  for  such  an  ex- 
traordinary  action?     And    thus,    while  she 
deliberated  and  wavered,  an  abrupt  turn  of 
the   carriage   told  Marguerite  that  she  had 
nlready  entered  her  own   lodge-gates — she 
vas  already  home. 
When   she   reached   the  front  door,  her 


limbs  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  tot* 
ter  from  the  carriage  to  the  house ;  and,  but 
for  the  servant,  who  caught  her  arm,  she 
would  have  sank  upon  the  threshold. 

"  Where — where  is  Mr.  Mortimer?  "  she 
gasped,  hardly  conscious  what  she  said. 

"  My  master  is  in  the  library  ;  he  has  been 
there  all  the  afternoon,"  answered  the  man, 
terrified  at  the  ghastly  paleness  of  his  young 
mistress.  "Lord,  madam!  has  anything 
happened  ?  " 

"  Give  me  a  light,"  said  Marguerite,  in  a 
calm,  composed  tone.  "In  the  library !" 
she  murmured  to  herself,  and  the  fact  of 
having  left  the  drawer  open  which  contained 
her  letters  and  journal,  flashed  upon  her 
mind  with  sudden  clearness.  "  Then  he 
knows  all!"  she  thought.  "Thank  God 
that,  at  least,  I  am  spared  the  guilt  of  fur- 
ther concealment ! " 

She  took  the  light  with  a  steady  hand,  and 
walked  so  firmly  up-stairs,  that  the  servant 
stared  after  her  in  astonishment,  and  thought 
her  pallor  and  wild  looks  on  entering  must, 
after  all,  have  arisen  from  some  accidental 
faintness.  She  went  straight  along  to  the 
ibrary,  never  stopping  for  a  moment  on  her 
way,  then  opened  the  door,  still  without  fal- 
tering, and  in  perfect  silence. 

Mortimer  was  seated  at  the  table  by  a 
lighted  lamp ;  and  before  him,  as  Marguer- 
ite's forebodings  told  her,  lay  her  open  dia- 
ry, her  papers,  Philip's  letters,  dried  flowers, 
that  he  had  given  her  years  before  at  Ker- 
saint—all  the  hoarded  records  of  her  love. 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke :  then  Mar- 
guerite walked  close  up  before  him,  her 
large,  dark  eyes  unnaturally  dilated,  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  together  upon  her  bo- 
som. 

"  Madame  !  you  here  ?  "  She  did  not  at- 
tempt to  speak.  "  You  have  returned  then 
to  my  house — to  your  home,'1'1  with  bitter  em- 
phasis on  the  word.  "  Has  your  lover  failed 
in  his  appointment,  though  you  were  true? 
or  is  it  convenient  that  I  should  be  honored 
with  your  presence  for  one  night  more  ?  " 

Still  she  never  answered,  only  her  lips 
parted  a  little ;  but  there  was  no  sound. 

"Speak!"  he  thundered,  rising  from  his 
seat.  "  I  command  you  to  speak — the  time 
is  over  for  any  more  of  your  cursed  inno- 
cence." 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  be  innocent,"  she 
replied,  very  low. 

"  No.  With  such  evidence  as  this,"  point- 
to  the  table,  even  your  hypocrisy  is  con- 
founded, although  it  is  the  blackest  that  ever 
a  woman's  blasted  beauty  covered  since  the 
world  began.  Some  women  go  to  perdition 
after  years  of  marriage — that  is  bad  enough  ! 
but  you  have  never  been  pure — you  were 
corrupt  in  your  childhood." 

"  Sir  !  "  raising  her  clasped  hands  towards 
him,  "  do  not  speak  to  me  so.  Kill  me,  but 
do  not  say  that  I  was  guilty  when  you  mar- 
ried me." 


170 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


"Oh,  kill  you,  madam !  You  may  spare 
me  those  theatrical  expressions.  Keep  them 
against  the  time  your  poet  lover  deserts  you, 
they  may  tell  upon  him !  Not  guilty,  you 
say  when  I  married  you?  then  what  do  all 
these  letters  mean — these  entries  in  your  own 
hand-writing  ?  " 

*'  A  girlish  love,  sir — not  guilt." 

"Girlish  love  fora  married  man? — girl- 
ish love  still,  I  suppose  ?  only  that  he  is  free, 

you  married.     But  you  forget  by !  aye, 

and  your  paramour,  too,  that  there  is  an- 
other in  the  case  now — that  you  have  a  hus- 
band implicated  in  your  dishonor,  and  one 
that  is  no  fool  to  look  on,  and  smile  at  his 
own  shame,  as  some  in  your  fashionable 
world  do  !  Oh  !  the  fool  that  I  have  been 
already,"  he  went  on  passionately,  "  to  think 
that  at  your  age,  and  with  your  face,  you 
were  going  into  the  world  innocently.  Fool 
to  believe  all  your  own  accounts  that  you 
amused  me  with,  as  a  cover  to  your  intrigues. 
By  Heaven  !  I  believe  that  this  is  not  the  only 
one ;  and  that  your  cousin  Gaston  came  in 
for  a  share  of  your  girlish  love." 

"No,  no,  sir,"  she  cried  vehemently; 
"  guilty  though  I  am,  do  not  accuse  me  of 
such  infamy  as  that !  You  do  not — you  can- 
not believe  that  I  am  so  utterly  lost  ?  "  look- 
ing steadily  at  him. 

He  moved  his  position  uneasily,  and  turned 
away  his  head,  as  though  afraid  to  look  down 
into  that  truthful  face  that  had  already  de- 
ceived him. 

""Well,  I  believe  you!"  he  answered, 
after  a  minute.  "  One  is  sufficient.  And 
such  love  as  you  have  borne  your  first  lover 
was  not  likely  to  be  shared,  I  own.  How 
proud  I  have  been  of  you.  Marguerite  !  "  he 
went  on  more  softly — "  how  I  have  boasted 
that  my  wife  was  above  even  the  shadow  of 
reproach  ! — how  I  have  studied  every  wish, 
every  thought  of  yours " 

A  sudden  sob  choked  his  words  ;  and  even 
more  touched  at  this  gentleness  than  at  his 
angry  words  of  reproach,  Marguerite  sank 
upon  her  knees. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  she  cried.  "I  ac- 
knowledge my  sin — my  utter  unworthiness — 
my  ingratitude ;  but  say  that  you  forgive 
me !  Do  not  let  your  last  words  to  me  be 
curses !  " 

"  My  last  words  !  "  he  echoed,  scornfully, 
all  the  momentary  weakness  over.  "My 
last  before  you  join  Philip  Earr.sdHFe,  I  con- 
clude. No,  madam,, they  shall  not  be  curses. 
J  have  forbearance  enough  fur  that,  and  you 
will  be  sufficiently  cursed  in  your  own  alier- 
life.  Rise  up,  pray,  and  leave  me.  I  am 
in  no  humor  fur  scenes  now.  I  will  not  <lis- 
•  iii  belore  the  servants  by  telling  you 
to  (juit  the  roof  you  have  dishonored  at  once 
— but  never  let  me  >,.,.  your  face  again  " 

She  rose — she  turned,  and  without  a  word, 
She  tried  to  move  towards  the  door;  but 
Strange  lurid  lights  Hashed  before  h.-. 


an  intolerable  p*in  was  about  her  heart,  and 
her  limbs  refused  to  help  her. 

•'  I — am — ill,"  she  said  faintly,  leaning 
heavily  against  the  wall. 

But  Mortimer's  heart  was  steeled.  He 
believed  her  far  guiltier  than  she  was,  and 
thought  it  all  acting. 

"Leave  me,  madame ! "  he  repeated, 
fiercely.  "Do  you  hear  me?  Leave  my 
presence  !  "  Still  she  never  moved  ;  only 
her  head  sank  down,  her  hands  clasped  more 
convulsively  for  support.  "  Then  as  you 
refuse  to  do  so,  I  will  go  myself.  I  will  re- 
main no  longer  in  the  same  room  with  the 
woman  I  have  called  my  wife,  until  I  knew 
that  she  was " 

The  cruel  word  had  no  sooner  escaped 
him,  in  his  passion,  than  he  wished  it  re- 
called. To  his  last  hour  Mortimer  will  never 
forget  the  wild  scream  that  burst  from  Mar- 
guerite's lips — the  expression  of  her  face  as 
she  turned  it  full  round  to  his.  Both  will  haunt 
him,  as  I  am  told  the  mute  anguish  of  a 
stricken  deer  has,  years  afterwards,  haunted 
the  memory  of  him  who  smote  her. 

"Not  to  me!"  she  cned,  staggering  for- 
ward a  few  weak  steps.  "  Say  it  was  not 
to  me  ! — not  to  your  little  Marguerite " 

She  threw  her  arms  forward,  as  though 
once  again  to  clasp  him,  then  sank,  like  a 
thing  of  stone,  at  his  feet.  Mortimer  be- 
lieved that  she  had  fainted,  arid  raised  her 
instantly ;  but  as  he  did  so,  a  crimson  tor- 
rent broke  from  her  mouth,  dabbling  her 
neck,  her  dress,  her  flowers,  with  the  dark 
tide  of  death.  In  that  moment  of  fearful  ex- 
citement the  vague  dread  of  her  whole  life 
was  realised.  She  had  ruptured  a  blood- 
vessel. 

Still  she  strove  to  look  up  at  her  husband, 
and  her  lips  moved  inarticulately,  as  though 
asking  him  to  recall  his  last  words. 

"  Forgive  me!"  she  said,  at  length,  with 
an  almost  superhuman  effort,  while  the  blood 
literally  poured  from  her  mouth  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  was  not  so  guilty;  and  tell  Philip — 
Philip » 

But  a  film  gathered  over  the  upturned  eyes 
— a  sudden  spasm  contracted  the  features — 
and  so,  while  she  yet  uttered  his  name,  she 
expired. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

\Viii.\  Philip  returned  home  to  his  hotel 
from  Mrs.  hoi-rimer's  frt>\  he  did  not  at- 
tempt to  rest  ;  Init  remained  up  the  whole 
night,  writing  letters  to  his  uncle,  to  Neville, 
and  a  tew  other  triends,  telling  them  ol  his 
sudden  departure  Irom  Kngland.  He  mad" 
all  his  business  arrangements — wrote  to  IIM 
banker  for  letters  of  credit — to  .SOUK;  ol  n:» 


PHILIP  EARXSCLIFFE. 


171 


political  supporters,  saying  for  the  present 
he  had  abandoned  his  intention  of  standing 
for  L ;  and  all  this  with  a  strange  calm- 
ness at  which  he  himself  was  astonished. 
Although  he.  knew  that  Marguerite's  prom- 
ise om*e  given,  she  would  never  fail  him,  he 
could  ftot  realise  the  truth  that  she  was  to  be 
actually  his— actually  leave  England  with 
him.  From  the  first  it  had  been  so  com- 
pletely a  part  of  their  love  to  look  upon  it 
as  hopeless,  and  for  him  to  consider  Mar- 
guerite as  the  type  of  all  purity  and  inno- 
cence, that,  even  amidst  the  very  prepara- 
tion for  their  flight,  his  mind  refused  to  see 
the  evidence  of  their  union  and  her  guilt. 
When  morning  came  he  could  only  swallow 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and  afterwards  pace  up  and 
down  the  room,  waiting  impatiently  for 
eleven  o'clock.  At  that  hour  he  proposed 
going  down  to  Wimbledon,  finally  to  arrange 
with  Marguerite  for  meeting  her  in  town, 
towards  evening,  in  time  to  reach  Dover  for 
the  night  mail.  But  an  unusual  tremor  was 
upon  him.  His  strong  nerves  started  at  the 
slightest  sound.  Every  footstep  in  the  pas- 
sage he  fancied  was  approaching  him  with 
some  message,  some  ill  tidings  from  Mar- 
guerite ;  and,  at  length,  unable  to  support 
this  kind  of  uneasy  suspense  any  longer,  he 
hastily  changed  his  dress,  and  ordered  his 
horse,  resolving  to  linger  on  the  road,  and 
so  get  rid  of  the  lagging  hour-and-a-half 
which  yet  remained. 

When  he  reached  Wimbledon  it  was  only 
half-past  ten.  "No  matter,"  he  thought; 
"she  will  be  alone  by  this  time,  and  the  in- 
terview is  better  over,  for  both  of  us.  My 
poor  Marguerite  !  I  know  well  the  feverish 
uncertainty  she  must  suffer.  It  will  be  soon 
finished  now." 

He  left  his  horse  at  the  hotel,  and  walked 
on  towards  Mortimer's  house :  the  gates 
stood  open,  and  he  entered  without  speaking 
to  any  one.  The  gardener's  children  were 
not  playing,  as  usual,  in  the  lodge  garden : 
no  servants  were  about ;  there  seemed  an 
unusual  gloom  about  the  whole  place,  or  it 
appeared  so  to  Philip's  excited  fancy;  and 
he  walked  on  hurriedly  to  the  house,  and 
knocked.  Marguerite's  little  page  came  to 
the  door,  with  pale,  horror-struck  face,  and 
eyes  swollen  with  crying. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Mortimer  at  home?  " 

"Oh,  sir! — mv  mistress — have  you  not 
heard  ?  " 

"Heard  what?"  exclaimed  Philip,  seiz- 
ing the  child's  arm  so  suddenly  that  it  de- 
prived him  of  all  his  remaining  fortitude, 
and,  instead  of  relplying,  he  burst  into  tears. 
Just  then  a  stealthy  step  approached  from 
the  other  side  of  the  hall,  and  the  butler's 
solemn  face  appeared. 

"  Mr.  Earnscliffe  —  sir,"  not  speaking 
above  his  breath,  "  my  master  has  given  or- 
ders that  you  should  be  admitted." 

"And  Mrs.  Mortimer?"  asked  Philip, 
eagerly. 


The  man  shook  his  head.  "  If  you  will 
follow  me,  sir,"  he  replied,  **  my  master 
will  tell  you  himself." 

Philip  felt  that  something  of  importance 
had  taken  place ;  either  an  explanation  had 
occurred  between  the  husband  and  wife,  or 
Marguerite  had  already  quitted  her  home ; 
no  glimmering  of  the  truth,  however,  crossed 
his  mind.  He  was  ushered  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  waited  alone  for  about  ten  min- 
utes in  all  the  misery  of  suspense,  and  while 
each  moment  seemed  to  him  an  hour.  At 
length  Mortimer  entered.  For  a  second 
Earnscliffe  did  not  recognise  him.  In  one 
night  his  appearance  had  altered  from  strong 
middle  life  into  decrepid  old  age ;  his  face 
haggard  and  pale;  his  step  uncertain,  his 
gait  drooping. 

Earnscliffe  advanced  to  salute  him. 

"  Sir — do  you  offer  me  your  hand  ?  " 

The  hollow  tone  made  Philip  actually  start 
back  ;  he  felt  that  Mortimer  knew  everything. 

"  I  should  not  have  come " 

"  Had  you  known  all !  No — probably  not. 
There  is  no  attraction  for  you  now,  Mr. 
Earnscliffe  !  You  have  finished  your  work 
well." 

' '  Great  God  !  sir,  tell  me — how  is  Mar- 
guerite ?  Is  she  here  ?  " 

"  Aye  she  is  in  my  house  still.  You  will 
be  content  to  leave  her  with  me  now,  I  sus- 
pect." 

"  I  can  bear  this  no  longer  !  "  cried  Philip, 
vehemently.  "  If  you  will  not  tell  me  how 
Marguerite  is,  I  will  find  her — see  her  my- 
self." And  he  approached  the  door. 

"Will  you  so?"  Mortimer  answered. 
"  Then  let  me  take  you  to  her  chamber.  I  am 
not  a  jealous  husband,  you  perceive,  Mr. 
Earnscliffe  !  although  I  am  aware  of  your  at- 
tachment, I  conduct  you  to  your  love  my- 
self! "  And  he  motioned  to  Philip  to  follow 
him. 

"  The  old  man  is  mad,"  thought  Earns- 
cliffe. "He  has  discovered  all,  and  is  do- 
ting in  his  jealous  rage." 

"  But  he  shuddered  with  a  vague  forebod- 
ing of  ill,  as  he  followed  Mortimer's  totter- 
ing steps  up  the  staircase.  When  they  came 
to  the  library  Mortimer  trembled  visibly, 
and  attempted  to  pass  on  quicker ;  and  Mar- 
guerite's little  spaniel,  who  was  silently  fol- 
lowing them,  shrank  fearfully  away.  Philip 
saw  all  this  with  that  quick  perception  to  ex- 
ternal things  which  the  mind  frequently  ex- 
periences under  the  most  violent  emotion ; 
and  when  at  last  they  reached  Marguerite's 
sleeping  room,  and  Mortimer  noiselessly 
turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  the  cold  dews 
stood  thick  upon  his  forehead. 

"  Tell  me,  in  pity  tell  me,"  he  whispered, 
"  is  Marguerite  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  go  in  !  "  returned  Mortimer.  *'  So 
gay  a  gallant  surely  never  fears  nothing. 
Go  in,  sir!  I  have  brought  you  to  your 
love ! " 

And,  with   a  powerful   effort,  Earnscliffe 


172 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


forced  himself  to  enter  the  room  that  already 
his  tortured  sense  told  him  was  one  of  death. 

Upon  the  bed  dressed  in  white,  lay  Mar- 
guerite, her  face  uncovered.  A  sweet,  lov- 
ing expression  was  yet  upon  her  features ; 
her  hands  lay  in  an  attitude  of  natural  repose 
upon  her  breast,  and  all  that  told  of  death 
were  one  or  two  gouts  of  blood  upon  her 
night-dress,  and  a  faint  streak  across  the 
parted  lips. 

With  a  burst  of  agony,  before  which  Mor- 
timer's own  sorrow  quailed,  Earnscliffe  flung 
himself  by  her  side,  covered  her  cold  hands 
with  kisses,  called  upon  her  to  awake  to  him 
by  all  the  names  that  the  fervor  of  his  nature 
could  pour  forth. 

"  Oh,  it  is  well  for  you  to  recall  her,  who 
have  been  the  cause  of  her  death !  "  said 
Mortimer,  in  a  low,  concentrated  voice. 

But  Philip  never  heard  him  :  unconscious, 
even  in  his  presence,  he  continued  sobbing 
with  such  passionate  excess  as  is  rarely  wit- 
nessed in  a  young,  strong  man.  "Mar- 
guerite, return  to  me  ;  remember  how  I  have 
loved  you  !  Marguerite,  my  child,  my  own  !  " 

At  length,  jealous  of  the  kisses  Philip 
pressed  upon  her  cold,  insensible  hands, 
Mortimer  came  round  and  touched  his  should- 
er. 

*'  Leave  sir !"  he  whispered.  "  You  have 
seen  all  that  I  intended  you  should.  Your 
place  is  not  here  now.*' 

Philip  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned  upon 
him  a  face  of  anguish  before  which  Morti- 
mer shrank  back. 

"  This  is  not  my  place  !  "  he  repeated  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "  Not  mine  ! — who  have 
loved  her  with  my  very  life — before  you 
ever  knew  her — not  mine  ! — who  have  been 
the  cause  of  all  her  sorrows.  Leave  me 
with  her,  sir!"  he  went  on  fiercely;  "my 
place  is  here — I  can  injure  you  no  more 

now.     No "  as  Mortimer  was  beginning 

to  reply — "  in  her  presence  let  there  be  no 
unseemly  words — afterwards  I  will  hear  all 
you  have  to  say ;  but  now  I  must  be  with 
her — and  alone." 

After  a  moment's  irresolution,  Mortimer 
left  the  room  in  silence.  He  went  down  to 
the  dining-room ;  and,  seating  himself  in  his 
arm-chair,  wept  feebly  like  a  child  ;  and,  for 
an  hour  longer,  Philip  kept  his  watch  with 
the  dead.  During  that  hour,  what  tongue 
can  tell  the  dread  remorse — the  resolves — 
the  meditated  atonements  of  Karns< -lifTe's 
heart?  They  rest  between  him  and  Heaven, 
and  his  future  life  alone  can  test  their  .sin- 
cerity. At  length,  pale,  bur  tearless  now, 
lie  ruse,  and  bent  down  over  her  scanning, 
for  the  last  time,  her  waxen  features,  as 
though  to  imprint  each  line  upon  his  memory 
for  ererl  then  he  stooped,  and  kissed  her 
lips.  That  long,  lingering  kiss  which  poor 
humanity  gives  to  the  d.iy  which  once  held 
its  idol  before  yielding  it  up  for  evermore  ! 


The  dining-room  door  stood  open,  and 
Mortimer  met  him  as  he  passed. 

"Not  now!'1  said  Philip,  waving  him 
back  !  "I  will  speak  to  you  any  other  time 
— not  now." 

"  One  word,  Mr.  Earnscliffe— I  think  I 
have  a  right  to  demand  it — I  have  one  ques- 
tion to  ask  ! "  And  struck  by  the  softened 
tone,  the  wistful  expression  of  the  old  man's 
face,  Philip  mastered  his  own  emotion,  and 
entered  the  room.  Mortimer  closed  the 
door,  and  turned  round  to  Earnscliffe,  a 
strange  look  of  dawning  remorse  and  doubt 
contracting  his  features,  as  though  with  some 
sharp  bodily  pain. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  began,  huskily, 
"  that  is  no  time  for  you — and  me — to  speajc 
together.  By  the  dead  body  of  her  you 
have  quitted — by  your  own  honor — was  she 
pure  still  ?  " 

"  She  was  as  spotless  as  the  very  light  of 
heaven ! "  returned  Earnscliffe,  solemnly. 
4i  Whatever  were  my  own  guilty  hopes  for 
the  future,  I  swear  to  you  that  Marguerite 
was  pure " 

"Then,  I  washer  murderer!"  Mortimer 
interrupted,  hoarsely.  "  Leave  me,  sir. 
You  are  the  less  guilty  of  the  two." 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

MARGUERITE'S  sudden  death  and  the  cir- 
cumstances attending  it  furnished  conversa- 
tion until  the  close  of  the  season.  Actually 
for  four  consecutive  weeks  one  subject  con- 
tinued to  be  spoken  of  in  the  great  world 
with  unflagging  interest ! 

The  exact  circumstances  of  the  last  night 
of  Marguerite's  life  were  never  actually 
known.  All  Mortimer  could  be  brought  to 
say  was,  that  his  wife  returned  home  Hushed 
and  over-excited  from  Mrs.  Lorrimer'ajftfe; 
that  she  complained  of  illness ;  and,  while 
they  were  speaking  together,  was  sei/ed  with 
the  attack  from  which  she  never  rallied. 

Meanwhile,  the  confidential  talk  of  servants 
gained  far  more  ground  than  the  assevera- 
tions of  the  husband.  Mr.  (Jrimcs  had 
heard  his  master's  voice  speaking  in  loud, 
angry  tones  before  the  bell  rang  which  sum- 
moned him  to  the  fearful  scene  of  death  in 
the  librarv.  Mademoiselle  Kulalie  had  been 
bold  enough  to  take  a  glance  at  a  few  of  tho 
papers  upon  the  table,  which,  in  those  first 
moments  of  ierror.  Mortimer  had  taken  no 
heed  of.  Mademoiselle  Kulaiic  saw  that  they 
were  in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  ones  her 
mi-tr'-ss  had  -..  constantly  received  >;i\v  that 
thev  were  signed  "  Philip  Karnsclilfe . " 

And  all  this,  and  much  more  of  a  like 
nature,  was  related  let  the  countless  servants 
who  came  "  to  inquire"  for  Mortimer.  And 


PHILIP  EARNSCLIFFE. 


173 


Boon  in  every  club  and  coterie  it  was  told, 
*'  that  Earn  cliffe  had  long  been  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer's lover — years  ago,  even  before  she  was 
married  ;  but  that  the  husband,  as  usual,  was 
blinded  longer  than  any  one  else ;  that,  at 
the  Richmond  fete  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  be- 
sought Earnscliffe  to  take  her  with  him  from 
England ;  that  he  had  returned  home  half 
distracted :  Mortimer,  in  the  meantime,  had 
broken  open  her  desk,  and  found  all  Earns- 
cliffe's  letters.  Fearful  explanations  had 
ensued,  ending'1  (in  this,  at  least,  they  could 
weave  no  falsehood)  "  with  Mrs.  Mortimer's 
rupturing  a  blood-vessel  of  the  heart,  and 
her  death."  » 

Even  Georgy  found  herself  quite  of  im- 
portance, from  knowing  so  many  details  of 
the  story,  flaunted  from  house  to  house  in  the 
French  bonnet  and  dress  Marguerite  had 
given  her — the  relationship  was  too  distant  to 
require  mourning — eager  to  tell  all  she  knew, 
and  say  :  "  How  very  melancholy  it  was  !  but 
she  must  confess  she  always  thought  Mrs. 
Mortimer  was  completely  French  in  her  no- 
tions of  morality,  and  much  too  fond  of  ad- 
miration for  a  married  woman  !  " 

And  thus,  while  those  who  had  so  long 
courted  and  fluttered  round  Marguerite  were 
casting  each  an  additional  stone  at  her  black- 
ened memory,  she — the  best  and  purest 
among  them  all — was  carried  to  her  grave — 
a  new  grave  in  some  new  cemetery;  and 
laid  there,  with  only  two  old  men  for  mourn- 
ers— Danby  and  her  husband. 

Only  two  mourners  at  her  funeral!  But 
when  the  summer  twilight  was  deepening,  a 
stranger  bribed  the  keeper  of  the  gates  that 
evening  to  open  them  for  him  to  enter.  And 
throughout  the  first  dark  night  that  Marguer- 
ite was  in  her  grave,  this  stranger  kept  watch, 
kneeling  upon  the  new-laid  turf  in  such  tear- 
less, rigid  anguish  as  can  smite  the  heart  but 
once  in  a  lifi'time,  then  leaves  it  blank  and 
dead  for  ever. 

*  *  *  * 

When  Neville  called  upon  Earnscliffe  the 
following  day,  he  started  at  seeing  his  face. 
Every  remaining  look  of  youth  was  gone ; 
around  his  eyes  was  a  deep  hollow  shade ; 


and  already  many  a  silver  line  streaked  his 
dark  hair. 

"  You  have  suffered,  Earnscliffe !  You 
are  fearfully  changed  !  " 

"  I  have,"  replied  Philip,  without  looking 
up  or  extending  his  hand  to  him.  "  I  have 
gone  through  all  the  bitterness  of  remorse 
that  any  man  could  do,  and  yet  live." 

Time  has  passed  on,  and  Earnscliffe  has 
again  interests  in  life ;  deeper,  graver  inter- 
ests than  any  of  those  which  engrossed  him 
in  his  youth.  All  desire  for  personal  distinc- 
tion is  gone ;  and  if  in  his  fresh  political 
career  he  has  \von  success,  it  was  unsought 
for.  He  has  firm  convictions  now  upon  the 
points  where  he  once  so  wavered — a  stronger 
sense  than  formerly  of  his  own  responsibility ; 
and  in  strenuously  supporting  the  cause  of 
social  reform,  in  devoting  himself  wholly  to 
the  welfare  of  others,  his  high  powers  of 
mind  have  found  at  length  a  genuine  and 
lasting  scope  for  action. 

Neville  is,  as  of  old,  his  greatest,  his  only 
friend  (for  political  partisanship,  however 
warm,  can  never  constitute  friendship  to  a 
nature  like  Philip's)  and  he  always  looks 
forward  with  relief  to  the  close  of  each 
session,  aud  the  lonely  autumn  which  he 
and  the  painter  shall  spend  together  in  Scot- 
land ;  for  Neville  is  still  the  same  untiring 
student  as  ever ;  and,  celebrated  though  he 
has  become,  works  from  Nature  with  all  the 
fresh  zest  that  he  had  at  eighteen. 

But  Philip  has  never  written  since  Mar- 
guerite's death.  Either  he  feels  no  more  in- 
spiration, or  the  constant  excitement  and 
turmoil  of  political  life  leave  him  no  spare 
time  for  literature.  He  rarely  goes  into 
the  world — never  into  the  society  where 
he  once  so  shone,  and  whose  leaders  would 
still  receive  him  with  open  arms,  did  he 
choose  to  return  to  their  small  distinctions 
and  applause. 

Is  Earnscliffe  happy  ? 

Oh,  reader!  is  there  not  some  shadow- 
across  your  own  memory — some  grave  over 
which  no  flower  can  ever  grow,  to  answer 
that  question? 


THE    END. 


LOAN  DEPT. 


LD  2lA-50m-9.'58 
(6889slO)476B 


Berkeley 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIE^ 


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